Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DAMIAN
We crouch low, boots treading silently against the gravel, bodies tucked behind the twisted brush lining the path toward the schoolhouse. My heart is thudding hard enough to bruise bone.
A scream rips through the air. It’s high-pitched and desperate. Wet with agony. Bridger and I both freeze mid-step, ducking behind a chunk of fallen concrete. The wind carries the sound again—rasping, shrill, begging. “Please! Please, stop! I told you I don’t know anything!”
Vick. That voice burned itself into my memory months ago. The way it shakes now, like it’s dragging over broken glass… I know fear when I hear it. Real, piss-yourself terror.
I don’t hear Cody.
My fists curl at my sides, knuckles burning in pain. The air’s thick with the stench of rot and something coppery—like old blood in a hot metal pan. My neck prickles, jaw tight. If Clay touched him—if Cody’s inside bleeding or worse—a red haze creeps in at the edges of my vision.
“Stay close,” I growl low, and Bridger nods, eyes locked with mine.
We move again, fast and silent. Every window’s either busted or boarded. The closer we get, the louder the sounds of violence. Grunts, footsteps, something heavy dragging across a floor. The faint, unmistakable slap of flesh on concrete.
There’s laughter, too. Dark. Breathless and cruel. It slithers under my skin and coils around my spine. That’s him. That’s my father.
I signal to Bridger. One window—partially broken. We creep toward it, glass crunches faintly under our boots. I raise my head just enough to look inside.
Vick is strung up by the wrists in the center of a dais, shirt torn, blood dripping down both sides of his face. His mouth’s split open, teeth red, like he’s been trying to scream through a busted jaw. His feet barely touch the floor.
And behind him? Clay. Holding a rusted crowbar slick with blood.
And the sick fuck is smiling. Savoring every second of the agony he’s carved into Vick’s body.
His mouth twitches with amusement, eyes sharp and glinting with something inhuman.
His sleeves are rolled up, forearms spattered with red like he’s been painting with it, and his chest moves with calm, measured breaths—as if this is his meditation. His release.
He walks in a slow circle around Vick’s suspended form, dragging the crowbar along the cracked floor boards with a screech that sounds like teeth grinding against bone. When he stops behind him, he leans in close and whispers something low into Vick’s ear.
Vick sobs. Clay laughs.
His fingers curl into Vick’s hair and yank his head back, exposing his throat, and I see the bruises there. Handprints. Rope burns. Blood already crusting at his collarbone. Vick’s trembling so hard that the chains rattle.
We scan the room from the broken window.
It's massive—used to be an auditorium once, probably where kids put on plays and shit. It’s the stage they’re on.
Its red velvet curtain is now a faded, shredded mess, hanging like strips of skin.
Rows of decaying wooden seats stretch out below us.
The ceiling is rotted in places, roof exposed.
A scaffold leans precariously, reaching toward rust-stained windowpanes.
"I don’t see Cody. Do you?" I whisper, the words sharp in my throat.
Bridger shakes his head, then stiffens beside me. His voice comes out hoarse, panicked. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck—look. Behind them. On the floor.”
My gaze darts over the warped floorboards, following a faint trail of smeared blood—until I see him. Cody. Slumped against the far wall like a ragdoll, one arm limp in his lap. I can’t tell if he’s breathing from here. I can’t see the rise or fall of his chest.
The sound that rips out of me doesn’t feel like mine. It’s low, feral. The guttural growl of something dark and broken. My jaw locks so tight my teeth grind together, my throat burns with it.
And then I hear Clay’s laugh—raspy, mocking. He looks up toward the window like he knew I was there all along. His smile spreads, cruel and cracked. “There he is,” he drawls. “There’s my oldest boy. Took you long enough. Now get your ass in here, Damian… or I start peeling skin.”
He raises the crowbar and swings it once against Vick’s ribs with a sickening thwack.
I growl under my breath, the rage clawing so deep it feels like it’s splitting me in half. “You get Cody,” I snarl at Bridger. “I’m going for Clay.”
He nods, pale, jaw clenched, but doesn’t argue.
I don’t wait. My feet are already moving, pounding through the weeds and gravel, straight for the front entrance. My vision tunnels. There’s only one thing I see. One thing I want. Clay.
My hands slam against the warped double doors. The first doesn’t budge. The second? I rip it clean off the hinges with a roar that tears something in my throat. The old metal creaks, gives way, and crashes to the floor like a warning shot.
I storm into the darkened building like a fucking bullet.
Everything inside smells like mildew, blood, and dust. I don’t register the echoes of my boots, the shadows moving across the walls, or even the broken beams ready to fall.
All I see is him. Clay Cross. Standing on that stage like some twisted goddamn king.
Crowbar in one hand. Vick’s blood splattered across his shirt and the stage floor beneath him.
And that smug, satisfied look on his face.
The same one he used to wear when I was a kid, when he’d drag me out of bed by the neck of my shirt, when he needed me to work on an engine at three in the morning.
“I’m so fucking glad you came,” he says, arms wide, grinning like this is a family reunion.
I don’t think. I just move. Fast. Violent. A goddamn hurricane of fury as I charge the stage.
Clay throws down the crowbar, the clang of metal hitting the wooden stage echoes in the dead air. He pulls something from the waistband of his jeans. A gun. Who the fuck gave this psychopath a gun?
“You might wanna rethink that,” he says, cocking it, aiming the barrel at Vick’s head. “Unless you’re in the mood to watch some brain matter redecorate the stage.”
I don’t even slow. I laugh. Shrug. “Don’t give a shit about him, Dad.”
He narrows his eyes and shifts the gun. Points it toward the body slumped near the base of the wall. “How about now?” he says.
Fuck, Cody. The steel sight aimed right between my little brother’s eyes.
My world stops like someone grabbed my lungs and squeezed.
My feet root to the floor, every cell in my body screaming to move, but I can’t.
I can’t risk it. Not now. Not when he’s got Cody at gunpoint.
My arms tremble. My hands ball into fists.
I hear my breath—jagged, too loud. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth, in my skull, behind my goddamn eyes.
Rage and adrenaline surge in my blood, blistering hot and unrelenting.
My whole body is shaking with it, vibrating like a live wire ready to snap.
I want to tear Clay apart with my bare hands.
But I can’t move. Not yet. Not if Cody dies the second I do.
My father smirks. “Now this ain’t the right way to welcome your father home,” he drawls, voice slick with sarcasm.
“I mean, I haven’t seen you boys in years.
.. Look at you. All grown up.” His lip curls, yellowed teeth flashing in a way that makes my stomach turn.
“Got me wonderin’…” he says, cocking his head.
“Just how much of a man you think you are, boy.”
He spits that last word like a challenge, like he’s daring me to come closer so he can put me in the ground for good. But I don’t take the bait.
Not when I see the smallest movement out of the corner of my eye.
Bridger. He’s moving low, slow, like muscle memory from a lifetime of sneaking through rooms where a single floorboard creak meant fists and blood.
He steps up onto the stage near Cody’s body and crouches beside him, checking for a pulse, for breath—anything.
I shift left. Just an inch. Then another. Trying to draw all of Clay’s attention back where it’s always belonged—on me.
My shoulders square. My jaw locks. And I’m fifteen again.
Skinny. Bloody. Standing between this monster and the two boys cowering behind me.
Buying them just enough time to run for school, to get the hell out, to escape whatever rage was coiled tight in Clay’s fists that day.
“You want to test me?” I say low, gravel in my throat.
“Then fucking do it. But leave him out of it.”
His eyes spark. Clay doesn’t move the gun.
Not a twitch.
His arm stays steady, aimed like a curse at Cody’s limp body. But his eyes? They’re locked on mine. Hungry for something ugly. Some reaction he can feast on. Rage. Fear. Weakness. He was always good at sniffing that shit out.
“Boy,” he says again, slow and deliberate, “you got a funny way of showing respect. I get out, come lookin’ for my family, and what do I find?
” He sneers. “My motorcycle shop? Sold. Some pussy with a ponytail runs it now. You know what he calls it?” His mouth pulls back like he’s going to vomit the words.
“‘Cherry Custom Garage.’” He spits on the floor. “Fucking cute.”
I keep shifting to block Bridger’s movement, my eyes never leaving Clay’s. I can feel the sweat dripping down my spine, my fingers twitching, the throb in my jaw from clenching it so damn tight.
“My house?” he goes on, voice rising. “My home? Some fat-ass family with kids in soccer cleats live there now. Turned my den into a goddamn playroom.”
His thumb taps the hammer of the gun.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I take another step left, slow enough not to set him off, just enough to keep his line of sight on me and not my brothers.