Chapter 75
Brooke
Travis hasn’t moved in several minutes.
The monitor beside him keeps its rhythm, a steady pulse that tells me his heart is still working, but the rest of him looks emptied out. His skin is pale against the hospital sheets. His mouth hangs slightly open. His lashes rest too still against his cheeks.
The doctor’s words replay whether I want them to or not. He is not out of danger. The next few hours will decide everything.
Naomi has not left his side. She dragged her chair close. Her hand stays wrapped around his, thumb moving slowly over his knuckles in the same small circle. She hasn’t checked her phone or slept. She hasn’t said a single word about how tired she must be.
She just stays.
Every time I look at her, I think of Mila.
I think of the way Travis moved that night. He saw the threat and stepped in front of me. Protecting the people he loves is not something he debates. It is something he does.
And he is lying here because of the world I dragged him into.
The guilt settles deep in my chest until it feels hard to pull in air. I lace my fingers together and press until my knuckles ache, trying to redirect the pressure somewhere else.
“I should have—” I start, but I stop. There is no version of that sentence that fixes anything.
Naomi looks up at me. Her eyes are red.
“Don’t…Don’t turn this into something it isn’t.”
“He keeps getting hurt because he’s standing next to me.”
“He’s here because he chose to be,” she replies. “He protects the people he loves. That includes you.”
The doctor steps in again, checks the monitors, adjusts the IV line, presses lightly at the bandages under the sheet. He studies the numbers for a moment longer than I like, then looks at us.
“He’s still unstable,” the doctor explains. “We’re doing everything we can, but the next few hours are critical.”
I nod, swallowing back the burn in my throat.
When he leaves, something shifts inside me.
Naomi sees it.
“You need to go,” she says quietly.
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“You’re not leaving him,” Naomi squeezes Travis's hand. “I’m here. I’m not moving.” She squeezes Travis’s hand. “If anything changes, you’ll know.”
I glance toward the hallway where Elise sits with Krueger at her feet, his leash wrapped tight in her hand, while Ryan sits beside her holding Luna close against his chest, just as Beau comes back in and hands them each a bag of chips without saying a word.
“The kids should stay here,” Naomi adds. “Whatever you’re about to do, they don’t need to see that.”
“Yeah.”
She nods once.
“Go.”
I lean down until my mouth is close to Travis’s ear.
“Don’t check out on me,” I murmur. “You’re not leaving yet.”
His breathing shifts slightly. It might be reflex. I choose to believe it's not.
I press my lips to his temple and straighten before the grief can take over.
Beau meets my eyes and gives a short nod, like he already knows what I’m about to do.
I turn and head out before anyone can say anything else.
The drive back feels off in a way I can’t shake.
The road stretches out in front of me, headlights cutting through the dark while my grip tightens on the wheel.
My thoughts won’t settle. They keep circling the same place, grief and anger twisting together, building into something that won’t let me sit still.
Every mile drags me closer, but it still feels like it’s taking too long.
By the time I pull up, my jaw is tight enough to hurt.
I step out and head straight for the house. The safe house door shuts behind me. The basement door is already unlocked.
I take the stairs slowly.
The smell hits first. Burnt flesh, thick, foul, sour, layered over with bleach that does nothing to hide it. It clings to the air, settles in the back of my throat, makes every breath feel heavier.
Seth stands near the table with his sleeves rolled up, his hands controlled, his focus locked in.
Grant is strapped down.
What is left of him is barely recognizable.
His fingers are gone. His toes too. The ends are sealed over, cauterized into blackened ruin, the skin around them swollen and split.
His chest rises unevenly, every breath dragging through him like it is being pulled out instead of taken in.
Sweat and blood coat his skin, and his entire body shakes in small, constant tremors that he can't stop.
He lifts his head when he sees me, and even that small movement costs him.
His mouth pulls into something that tries to be a smile, but it breaks halfway through.
“Well,” he rasps, voice shredded and uneven, catching between breaths. “Looks like the gang’s… all here.”
He coughs as soon as the words leave him, a wet, choking sound that forces his body to jerk against the restraints. Blood spills from the corner of his mouth as he tries to breathe through it.
I step fully into the room. I move around the table slowly, my boots quiet against the concrete, giving him time to watch me, to understand that I am not in a rush.
“You know, Grant,” I say, “you’ve taken a lot of things from me over the years. My parents. My freedom. Maybe the last piece of my sanity.”
I stop where he can see me clearly.
“That’s why I don’t feel bad about what I did to your family,” I continue. “I enjoyed every blow.”
Grant’s mouth twitches. His face tightens, and a strained sound slips out of him before he can stop it. He tries to speak, drags in a breath that doesn't come easy, and chokes on it.
I keep going.
“Before I even drove down to their house, I wasn’t completely sure they were bad people,” I admit. “I just assumed they had to be, to raise two sadistic fucks like you and Elliot. Turns out I was right.”
A smile pulls at my mouth.
“Your brother pissed himself before I killed him,” I add. “Your wife cried. Your mother begged. I’m pretty sure your father shit himself.”
I give a small shrug.
“All pathetic, just like you.”
Grant jerks against the restraints, the movement tearing through his body. A broken groan rips out of him as pain floods through whatever nerves are left intact. His breathing turns uneven, shallow, desperate, but he still tries to push through it.
He spits out words between breaths, voice breaking apart as he forces them through the pain, each sentence dragging itself forward like it is fighting to exist.
“Your mother…” he chokes, a wet cough cutting him off before he tries again. “We carved her open… ear to ear. She wouldn’t stop screaming…”
His chest stutters. He swallows hard, like it burns.
“Your father… we gutted him,” he continues, words slurring. “Took his eyes… made sure he saw it coming before we did.”
He lets out something that almost sounds like a laugh, but it collapses into another strained breath.
“They were so fucked up…” he rasps. “You couldn’t even have an open casket…”
His head tilts slightly, eyes trying to lock onto mine, even as his body trembles under the strain.
“We should’ve found you that night,” he mutters, voice dropping. “Taken turns… forced our way into your tight little cunt while we strangled the life out of you…”
He coughs again, harder this time, blood spilling from his mouth as his body jerks against the restraints.
I laugh.
The sound cuts through everything else in the room.
“Grant,” I sigh, shaking my head, “these weak attempts to intimidate me or piss me off aren’t going to work. I don’t give a fuck anymore.”
I step closer until I'm right beside his face.
“You’re dying,” I tell him. “Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
I glance at Seth, then back at Grant.
“But guess who decides.”
I tap my chest once, then gesture toward Seth.
“Me and him,” I smirk. “The two people you tried to destroy.”
Grant’s eyes shift, struggling to focus. The pain is still there, but something else starts to surface under it.
Fear.
“Your life is in our hands,” I continue. “We decide if you take your next fucking breath.”
I lean in close enough that he has no choice but to look at me.
“So tell me,” I whisper, “who’s the god now?”