Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Thorne didn’t know he was already dead. Not yet.
He sat at a corner table in a half-lit café, talking to people who didn’t matter, laughing at things that weren’t funny. He had done a remarkable job pretending he had moved on.
But I knew better. I saw the cracks, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes. The way his hand twitched when his phone buzzed. The way his shoulders stiffened when he passed by the theater.
He was running. Running from his past, from what we did, from her.
And I was going to make sure he stopped.
I watched him from the street, the glass between us a thin, fragile barrier. He must have felt it—that pull, that presence—but he ignored it. Just like he ignored the shadows stretching toward him, the ones that bent the wrong way when the café lights flickered.
I sent off the text without looking at my phone.I made sure to use a google voice number so it wouldn't be traced back to me.
You belong with her too.
I smiled.
Inside, Thorne checked his phone and his face went pale.
Perfect.
I let him feel it first. Let him think he had a choice.
He left the café faster than he intended, I could tell. He was walking too quickly, hands clenched, head turning sharply like he expected someone to be there.
He wasn’t wrong.
He just wasn't expectingme.
I let him walk for a while, trailing just out of sight. The wind carried whispers he pretended not to hear. Streetlights flickered as he passed. His own reflection in store windows didn’t quite match his stride.
By the time he reached his dorm, he was already shaking.
I was waiting for him.
Thorne shoved open his door and slammed it behind him, pressing his back against it like that would keep me out.
“You should have answered me,” I said.
His breath hitched, and his hands fumbled for something—I don’t know what. A weapon? His phone? It didn’t matter.
“Kael—”
I stepped forward. He tried to move, but his back hit the desk. Cornered.
“You should have answered her .”
“I—”
“You should have stayed.”
His fists clenched. “I’m not playing this game with you.”
“This isn’t a game.” I tilted my head. “Do you think Aeron thought it was a game?”
His face blanched. He knew. Of course, he knew.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
I smiled. “I fixed him.”
Thorne lunged, his fist colliding with my jaw. My head snapped to the side, pain bursting behind my teeth.
I laughed. God, I loved when they fought.
Thorne swung again, but I was ready. I caught his arm, twisting sharply. He hissed in pain, but I didn’t let go. I stepped closer, pressing him against the desk, feeling his pulse hammer beneath my grip.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” I murmured. “I just want to make you perfect for her.”
Thorne spat in my face.
I sighed and drove my knee into his stomach. He gasped, doubling over, and I took my chance. My fist connected with his ribs, once, twice, until he sagged against me.
I caught him before he could fall.
Gently. Carefully.
“You’ll thank me,” I promised.
Then I brought the handle of my knife down against his temple, and he went limp in my arms.
He woke up in the theater, just like Aeron had.
Just like he was always meant to.
His breathing was ragged, uneven. He was on his knees in front of me, arms tied behind his back with silk—the same shade of black as Lilith’s dress the night she died.
He lifted his head, dazed. Then his eyes focused, and the horror set in.
He was dressed in a deep charcoal suit, the fabric immaculate, the tie perfectly knotted. He looked beautiful.
I had made sure of it.
“What the fuck,” he choked out, his voice rough.
I smiled and smoothed the lapels of his jacket, adjusting the collar. “You’re perfect now.”
He flinched away from my touch. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
I crouched in front of him, fingers trailing down his cheek in something almost tender. “No, Thorne,” I whispered. “I just understand now. We were always meant to be hers.”
He trembled, and I felt it. The fear. The acceptance. The inevitability sinking in.
I lifted a black ribbon and tied it around his wrist, securing it with a delicate bow. A final gift.
Then, I stepped back, admiring my work.
“You belong here,” I murmured. “With us. With her.”
His lips parted like he wanted to speak, to scream, to beg. But there was no fight left in him.
I lifted the blade, pressing it just under his chin, forcing him to look up at me.
“I’ll make sure you don’t stain your final look,” I promised.
Then I slid the knife across his throat.
Blood bloomed in a slow, elegant spill, dark against the pristine fabric. He sagged against me, shaking, his breath coming in wet, uneven gasps.
I held him as he went still, his body going cold.
And as the air shifted, heavy and electric, I smiled.
Because I knew what was coming next.
I felt his presence before I saw it.
The faint shimmer of something not quite real. A breath of cold air curling around the edges of the stage.
Then his form flickered into existence.
He was still kneeling, still dressed in that perfect suit, still tied with the ribbon I had placed around his wrist.
His eyes met mine, wide and filled with something I couldn’t quite name.
I reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, my fingers brushing against his now-corporeal skin.
“There,” I whispered. “Now she’ll forgive you, too.”
Behind me, the darkness stirred.
And then, she spoke.
“I do.”