Chapter 49 The Final Name
I slipped inside through the back door. The lock gave under the slim tool with barely a click. I eased it shut behind me and stood still for a full ten seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the dark.
The house smelled of wood polish and old power. Stone floors. Heavy furniture. Wide hallways built to make visitors feel small. Exactly the kind of place a man like Thomas would build to remind everyone who owned the ground they walked on.
Once my eyes adjusted, I moved quietly through the dim interior.
The hallway opened into the living room.
One lamp burned low on a side table, throwing just enough light across the heavy furniture.
Thomas sat in a leather armchair near the fireplace with a glass of something dark in his hand.
He didn’t startle when I stepped into the light.
He simply lifted his head and looked at me, calm as if he had been expecting company all along.
“The cat finally comes inside,” he said. His voice was low, almost bored. “I wondered how long you’d circle the house.”
I stopped ten feet away. My cat pressed close under my skin, alert and ready.
“You knew I was here,” I said.
“I knew you’d come eventually.” He took a slow sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass. “You always were persistent.”
The fire crackled softly between us. For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Thomas sighed. “You know what bothered me about you?”
I didn’t answer.
“The scent.” His gaze settled on my face. “It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Close enough to nag at me. Not close enough to name.”
He let the silence stretch for a beat.
“The eyes didn’t help either.” Thomas tilted his head slightly. “I kept thinking I had seen them before.”
The smile that followed was small. Almost thoughtful. “Then I started looking.”
I took a step closer. “When did you figure it out?”
“A week ago.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I suddenly had a great deal of free time, after all.”
He watched me for a second longer before continuing.
“I remembered your mother first.” His gaze never left mine. “Once that piece fell into place, the rest wasn’t difficult. You have her eyes.” A short pause. “You were supposed to be dead. On paper, you are dead. But somehow a little girl survived.”
He took another sip. “Impressive, really.”
My hand dropped to my hip and closed around the hilt of the hunting knife. I drew it smoothly and let it rest loose at my side. Thomas noticed. He didn’t seem to care.
“It seems you’re remarkably difficult to kill,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Even Naomi failed.”
“You sent her.”
Thomas snorted. “As if Naomi needed much encouragement.”
I didn’t respond. The kidnapping didn’t matter. Not really. It had never been the question that kept me awake at night.
“Why?” I asked.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Why what?”
“You know exactly what.”
The amusement faded from his face. He stared into the fire for a long moment, the glass loose in his hand.
“You had money,” I pressed. “Power. Connections. You already controlled half the county. So why my family?”
Thomas didn’t answer right away. The fire popped behind him, throwing a brief flare of light across the side of his face.
“You think this was about land,” he said finally.
“Then what was it about?”
He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “I suppose I can tell you, since only one of us is walking out of here tonight.”
For the first time, Thomas looked away from me. “My mate knew your father.”
I frowned. “Knew him?”
“They dated in college. Nearly two years.” His voice was flat, almost clinical. “Until your mother happened.”
I stared at him.
“Daniel was with my mate before me,” Thomas continued. “They dated for nearly two years. Then he met his true mate, your mother, and ended it. A mate bond doesn’t leave much room for anything else.”
He took another slow sip of whiskey.
“Years later I married Cecilia. And one night I took her to a business meeting. The second she saw him again, I felt it through the bond. The surprise. The longing. She tried to hide it, but I knew.”
He finally looked back at me, eyes cold.
“He must have laughed behind my back, knowing he’d had my mate first. Knowing she would have chosen him if she could.”
Thomas leaned forward slightly, a cruel smile touching his lips. “So I decided it was only fair that I got to fuck his mate in return.”
The words landed harder than the blow ever could have.
“But he was already dead,” I said. “He wouldn’t have known. There was nothing left for you to take from him.”
Thomas’s smile stayed thin. “Yes. Rainy roads are dangerous. Especially when someone makes sure the car doesn’t make the turn.”
My father hadn’t died in an accident. Every anniversary. Every time I had wondered whether he’d been scared, whether he’d suffered, whether he could have done something differently… all of it had been built on a lie.
I looked into Thomas's eyes and saw the truth sitting there without a shred of remorse.
“You killed him.”
Thomas didn’t deny it. “He took what belonged to me.”
He took another slow sip of whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass like he was studying something mildly interesting.
“Is that why you came back?” he asked. “For revenge? To kill us?”
I held his stare. “You already know the answer.”
Something ugly shifted behind his eyes.
“Is that why you went after my son?” he asked, quieter now. “Was he just another way to get to me?”
"No."
Thomas’s jaw flexed. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything.”
That was enough.
“You should have stayed dead,” he snarled, and launched himself at me.
He was faster than I expected for a man his size.
His hand slammed into my wrist before I could bring the hunting knife up.
The blade flew from my grip and skittered across the floor.
Pain exploded up my arm as I twisted away, but his other fist caught me square in the ribs.
The blow lifted me clean off my feet and drove me into the edge of a heavy oak table. Wood cracked hard against my back.
I hit the floor a second later and rolled instinctively to absorb the impact. As I came up I pulled the folding knife from my boot.
Thomas lunged. I sidestepped and drove the smaller blade into the meat of his shoulder, twisting hard. He bellowed and locked onto my wrist before I could yank it free. Bones ground together under his grip. The pain was blinding.
He shoved me backward into the bookshelf. Volumes tumbled down around us as I drove a knee into his groin. He folded slightly but didn’t let go, slamming me into the shelves again. More books rained down. He wrenched my hand against the wood until the knife dropped from my numb fingers.
I headbutted him. Cartilage crunched under the impact and blood poured from his nose.
He released my wrist only long enough to lock both hands around my throat.
His fingers closed like iron bands. Black spots started dancing at the edges of my vision as I found the slim knife strapped to my thigh, yanked it free, and stabbed upward.
He raised his forearm at the last second.
The blade sank deep into it instead of his neck. He howled and let go.
I dropped, gasping, and rolled away. Air scraped into my lungs in rough pulls. My chest throbbed with every breath, but nothing felt broken. Just deep bruises that would hurt like hell tomorrow. Good. Pain kept me sharp.
“You think a knife makes you dangerous?” he growled.
I didn’t answer. My cat surged hard under my skin.
Claws pushed through the tips of my gloves, shredding the fabric as I launched low and fast. I ducked under his swing and drove my clawed hand into his side.
Flesh tore. Something gave under my fingers.
Thomas roared and backhanded me hard enough to send me crashing into the wall.
My head bounced off the plaster. I slid down it, vision swimming.
The hunting knife lay on the floor near the overturned chair.
I snatched it up as Thomas came at me again, slower now, blood soaking his shirt and dripping from the wounds I had already opened.
His eyes burned with the kind of hate that only came from a man who had lost everything and still had teeth left.
I circled left, drawing him toward the fireplace. My breath came ragged. Thomas limped after me, favoring his injured side. Former alpha or not, age and blood loss were catching up.
From the mantel I grabbed a heavy brass candlestick and threw it hard at his knee.
It connected with a sick crack. He stumbled.
I burst inside his guard before he could recover.
My cat fed me the angles, the openings. I slashed the hunting knife across his thigh and cut deep, hamstringing him.
He dropped to one knee with a roar that shook the room.
I didn’t hesitate.
I drove the blade straight into his chest, just left of center. It punched through muscle and scraped rib. I twisted hard and felt the give. Thomas’s eyes widened. Shock first. Then recognition.
Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. “You…”
“Yeah,” I said, voice steady. “Me.”
For the first time, real fear flickered across his face. I shoved the blade deeper. His hands clutched weakly at my arms, fingers slipping on blood. His legs buckled. He toppled sideways and crashed to the floor. I followed him down, straddling his chest.
“This is for Harmony.”
The knife went in.
“This is for my father.”
I drove it down again.
“This is for me.”
Again.
“This is for Jackson.”
Again.
“This is for every life you destroyed.”
I kept going. Each strike fed the fire I had carried for ten years. My arms burned. My vision blurred with tears. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The blade rose and fell, wet sounds filling the quiet room. Thomas’s body jerked under me with every hit, long after he had stopped breathing.
Strong hands suddenly closed around my wrists.
I jerked and spun with the knife still raised, but Jackson caught my arm and stopped the blade inches from his chest. His scent hit me at once. Familiar. Safe. Steady.
The fight drained out of me all at once. The knife slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor. A ragged sob tore from my throat as he pulled me off Thomas’s body and into his arms.
I buried my face against his neck and clutched at him like he was the only real thing left. My entire body shook. The dam I had held for ten years finally broke.
I cried for my mother. For Harmony. For my father. For the girl who never made it out of that burning house.
Jackson held me tight against his chest, one big hand cradling the back of my head. His heart hammered under my ear. He smelled like night air and blood and home.
“I felt it,” he whispered roughly. “Even when you tried to shut the bond down. The rage. The pain. I came as fast as I could.”
I could not speak yet. I just clung to him, shaking.
He pressed his lips to my hair. “It is done now. He is gone.”
We stayed like that for a long minute. Then he eased me back just enough to look at my face. His eyes scanned the bruises on my throat, the split lip, the way I held my ribs. His jaw tightened but his touch stayed gentle.
“Can you walk?”
I nodded. He helped me up, keeping an arm around my waist. I glanced once at Thomas’s ruined body on the floor. No satisfaction came. Only a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion and the strange, quiet hollow where ten years of purpose used to live.
“We need to destroy the DNA,” I said, voice hoarse.
Jackson nodded once. Without hesitation, he took the lead.
He found two gas cans in the garage and dragged them inside, then started dousing the living room.
He soaked the bloodstained floor, the broken furniture, and the body until the sharp smell of gasoline cut through the copper.
Every movement was quick and methodical while I stood by the door, still dazed, watching him work.
He lit a rag from the fireplace and tossed it in. Flames roared up instantly, hungry and fast.
“Where’s your bag?” he asked as he helped me outside.
I told him the route I had taken. He supported most of my weight as we slipped out the back.
Every step sent pain shooting through my cracked ribs and bruised body, but nothing seemed broken.
He helped me over the wall, then followed.
We made it to his car, parked five miles away in a quiet spot.
I stayed quiet the whole way, empty and dazed.
In the car, I told him to put the tarp down first. He did, protecting the seats from the blood. Then he pulled his oversized hoodie over my clothes, swallowing me in it to hide the damage. That was how we got back to the apartment.
Once inside, he helped me into the shower. The water ran red as he washed me gently, careful with every cut and bruise. A lot of deep bruises and cracked ribs, but no shattered bones. He bandaged the worst of it in silence.
When I was clean and wrapped in fresh clothes, I finally spoke.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “For sneaking out. For leaving you like that.”
Jackson pulled me into his arms, careful of my injuries. “I know why you did it,” he murmured against my hair. “But don’t do it ever again.”
I leaned into him, letting the solid warmth of his body hold me up. Neither of us spoke for a while. The adrenaline was crashing hard now, leaving me hollow and exhausted.
We still had work to do. Burn everything. My clothes, his clothes, the bag, the weapons, the tarp. Every trace of tonight needed to disappear.
But what mattered was this:
The list was finished.
Thomas was gone.
And for the first time in ten years, I didn’t have a plan for what came next.