23. Cam
What the hell was she thinking?
I swear, by the time we get through this mess, I’m going to need insurance specifically for that goddamn rolling pin. And maybe a therapist. Or two.
Adam was always going to be a problem. A box waiting to be checked. But this—this wild, unsanctioned burst of chaos—wasn’t the way. When I say stay low and wait, I mean stay low and wait, not go charging out like some deranged vigilante with a kitchen implement.
It could’ve gone sideways in half a dozen ways. She doesn’t even see it.
And now?
She’s standing there, arms folded, inspecting the knots she’s tied like she’s just conquered Everest. Smug. Proud. Like she’s earned a badge in tactical restraint and knotwork 101.
It’s maddening. Infuriating.
And God help me… maybe just a little bit impressive.
“When they wake up, I’m dealing with them. Understand? No more off-the-cuff heroics. We need a plan now that they’re here and—”
“Do you mean killing them?”
She says it flat. No hesitation. No tact. Just the truth, dragged into the light before I can wrap it in strategy and euphemisms.
I pause, narrowing my gaze onto her, those damn green irises of hers twinkling with mischief.
Because yes. That was the plan. That is the plan.
They’re not leaving this house.
One of them laid hands on her. The other came along with intent. That’s not something I forgive, and it’s certainly not something I let walk. They’ve forfeited whatever scraps of humanity they had left. Parasites that should have never made it past childhood.
But she doesn’t need to hear the ugly parts. She doesn’t need blood staining her thoughts the way it does mine.
So, I just meet her gaze—as steady as I can—and say.
“I’ll handle it.”
Simple. Final. No room for questions.
Of course, with Nell though, there’s always room for questions.
Once the men are locked away in the basement holding cell, I guide her back upstairs. It’s not about comfort. It’s about proximity. I need her where I can see her, where she won’t derail the next phase of this disaster with more ‘initiative.’
“How are we going to do it?”
she asks, like she’s inquiring about a weekend project.
“Is there a method, or are we just… improvising? And what about the bodies—”
“Not we,”
I snap, turning to face her fully.
“Me. You’re staying out of this.”
I mean to land the words like a wall between us, something final. But my gaze falters and slips from her eyes to her mouth.
That mouth.
The one I shouldn’t have touched. The one that hasn’t left my thoughts since I did. The one I want to see wrapped around my cock so badly.
I tear my eyes away too late, and she notices. Of course she does. And in the space between us, something shifts again—charged, dangerous, impossible to walk back from.
What I wouldn’t give to rip the clothes from her body and remind her—slowly, thoroughly—how to obey.
But I can’t.
Because that would mean surrendering control. And with her, control is the only thing keeping this from becoming something dangerous and irreversible.
She doesn’t need pleasure.
She needs protection.
And yet, she makes that distinction nearly impossible. Infuriatingly sexy. Recklessly bold. A walking storm I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to step away from.
She’s chaos incarnate—loud, impossible, intoxicating—and every instinct I have is screaming to either pin her to a wall or lock her in a safe and throw away the key.
But she isn’t mine.
Can’t be.
And if we’re not careful—if I slip, if I give in—she won’t belong to anyone. Not once Manticore gets close enough to lay their hands on her.
The kiss was a lapse. A selfish indulgence that said too much. And took more than it should have. I won’t let it happen again. Even if every part of me is already aching to break that promise.
I pull away.
Not physically—I’m still close enough to smell her skin, still watching the way the light dusts across her cheek—but emotionally, completely. I shut it down. Brick by brick.
“Go get some sleep. I’ll deal with these in the morning,”
I say, voice stripped down to command—no softness, no suggestion.
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes just enough to let me know she caught it. That flicker of weakness. That glance at her mouth I shouldn’t have taken. But I don’t let it show again. I’ve trained for worse.
She doesn’t move. Not yet.
And part of me wants her to stay. Wants her to challenge it, push back, close the gap again. But the rest of me knows what that leads to. How fast control slips when she’s near. And right now? She needs protection more than she needs promises I can’t keep.
So I take a step back. Create the space. Maintain the perimeter.
Because if I touch her again… I won’t stop.
She finally nods, sharp and small, then turns and walks off without another word. The soft scuff of her footsteps fades down the hall, and the long blonde curls that cascade down her back disappear back into the safety net.
And I’m left alone in the quiet, fists clenched at my sides. Still burning. Still wired. Still tasting the mistake I keep trying not to make.
I need to refocus.
Adam. His friend. The threat they bring. That’s what matters now.
I told Nell I’d handle it in the morning, but that was a lie I told for her benefit—not mine. This doesn’t wait. This ends tonight.
They laid hands on her. Or tried to. And the more I let that fact sit with me, the more the fury builds tight in my chest, coiled low in my gut. Every second I don’t act feels like a betrayal. Of her. Of the line I drew.
I feel protective in a way that borders on feral. A need to eliminate whatever shadows still follow her. Because I care.
Far more than I have any right to.
She’s chaotic. Brilliant. Maddening. A storm that crashed straight through the ruin I’d become and breathed life back into it. She doesn’t even know what she’s done to me.
But I do.
And I’ll burn the world before I let anything touch her again.
I grab the toolkit and check the cameras—just a quick sweep, no movement upstairs. She’s gone to bed. Good.
Time to deal with the real mess.
The cell is quiet when I step in, cold and damp with that low hum of dread. The one Nell clocked is coming round—head rolling slightly, eyes blinking through the fog of his concussion. Courtesy of the now-infamous rolling pin.
In a way I can relate to his confusion, having been on the receiving end of it, but that’s as far as the similarities go. I might be broken and fucked up, but I’ll never be what these pricks are—sick in the head.
“What the hell?”
he slurs, struggling to focus.
“You made a mistake coming here,”
I say evenly, slipping the apron over my head and pulling the black butcher gloves high up my arms—snapping them into place like punctuation.
His gaze flicks around, still groggy.
“Where’s Adam?”
Like his friend’s going to walk in and save him.
“Adam?”
I echo, stepping aside just enough for him to see the opposite corner. Adam’s slumped low in his chair, unconscious or worse—it’s hard even for me to tell in the dim light.
The panic registers immediately.
“You… you can’t do this. People will know I’m missing. I have contacts—I—”
“No, you don’t.”
I raise his phone and give it a slow wave.
“This? Already wiped. Factory reset and will be tossed into a shredder before breakfast tomorrow.”
His breathing shifts—shallow now.
“There are no cameras on this road. None on the one you came in from, either. You don’t exist here. Just a bad choice in the wrong place.”
I lean in slightly, voice cooling.
“Tell me—did you really think you could lay hands on a defenceless girl and walk away without consequence?”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
The realisation is hitting home.
It’s been a long time since I had blood on my hands.
Too long.
I’d almost forgotten the way adrenaline sings through my veins—sharp and completely intoxicating. And if I’m honest, I’ve missed the buzz of it. I’ve missed the focus it brings.
But this one?
He’s a footnote. A consequence. Adam’s the one that matters.
Still, I take my time.
I reach for the mallet, fingers wrapping around the grip like reuniting with an old friend. I give it a casual swing, slow and deliberate, letting the weight settle, the threat speak for itself as I line it up just shy of his forehead.
“Please—don’t do this,”
he stammers, voice cracking.
“I won’t tell anyone I was here. I swear.”
Of course you won’t.
A dark bloom spreads across his crotch, soaking through the fabric.
He’s pissed himself.
Funny how the body cuts through bravado the moment it meets death face to face. But he doesn’t even get the chance to be afraid—a mercy he doesn’t deserve.
The mallet connects with a sickening crack, metal meeting bone in a way that reverberates up my arm and echoes off the cement walls. The chair skids sideways under the force, toppling him in a graceless sprawl.
I don’t stop.
Two more strikes—clinical, precise—until what’s left isn’t recognisable as a face. Just pulp and breathless silence.
He’s done. I turn to Adam but he’s still out cold, slouched in his restraints. I must have nailed the dart gun right in the sweet spot—lucky hit or muscle memory, it’s hard to tell. But he doesn’t get the luxury of dying in his sleep.
Either way, I’m not wasting the downtime.
I kneel beside his friend’s limp body, untie the slick ropes, and roll him into a heavy-duty body bag. The cell floor is already streaked with crimson and something greyer—bits of bone and brain matter. It’ll all come up. This room was built for this kind of cleanup.
Efficient. Contained. Forgettable.
Just like him.
I even have time to make a coffee.
One slow walk back upstairs. One methodical pour. The hiss of the kettle. The quiet hum of the house around me like nothing’s wrong.
Because for now, there isn’t.
Adam’s still out cold. Which suits me just fine. I need the caffeine. I crave a moment in the stillness. A moment of calm before everything sharpens again. This night’s far from over, and I’ll need the heat in my hands to match the cold I’m walking back into.
I failed Kyla.
All those years ago, when she came to me—nervous, uncertain, saying someone was following her—I dismissed it. Brushed it off like she was paranoid. And not once did I stop to really listen.
By the time I realised she wasn’t wrong, it was already too late.
I won’t make the same mistake again.
Not with Nell.
Not with this monster, or the others crawling out of the same rotten woodwork. They’re all cut from the same diseased cloth. Predators. And they all deserve the same end.
When I re-enter the cell, he’s stirring—eyelids fluttering against the clinical burn of the overhead bulb. The light makes everything feel uglier than it already is.
“Evening, sleepyhead,”
I say, setting my coffee just out of splash range. Might as well enjoy the luxury of caffeine before the night descends.
But he doesn’t plead. Doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs. Low and smug, like he’s in on a joke the rest of us aren’t invited to.
He tugs at the ropes—Nell’s handiwork, knotted so tight it looks military-grade.
Figures. The knot queen strikes again.
“Something funny?”
I ask, stepping closer.
He shrugs, that smirk spreading like oil.
“Typical Nell. Always hiding behind someone stronger. She could never fight her own battles. No wonder her uncle had such an easy time with her.”
Everything stills, and for a beat, I don’t breathe.
What did you just say?
He keeps going—casually cruel.
“Where is she? Hiding? Too scared to come face me herself?”
My jaw clenches so tight it might crack.
This man is filth. Way worse than I thought. He doesn’t just hurt women—he studies them. Catalogues their fears and tries to make them bleed with words before fists.
Not today.
“She’s upstairs,”
I say evenly.
“Didn’t even know I came down here. Truth is, she wanted to do this herself. But I figured it was more appropriate you faced me. After all—”
I lean in slightly, voice cold.
“I don’t think you fight men, do you? Just girls.”
“What are you doing?”
Her voice slices through the silence behind me, icing my spine in an instant.
She’s not supposed to be here—not now. She should be upstairs, asleep, shielded from this part of the night. From me like this.
When I turn, her wide doe eyes take in everything. The blood. The body bag. The mallet resting by my side. Me—splattered in crimson and cornered by consequence.
“You said we were waiting until morning.”
I know what I said. I said it to keep her safe, to buy her a few hours of peace. I didn’t think she’d follow me.
Before I can find the right words, the bastard in the chair lifts his head, eyes lighting up with spite.
“Well, well. There you are, Nell. Tell me—how many times did you suck his cock before he agreed to play your bodyguard? Bet you opened your legs real fast for a little protection.”
I don’t even speak. I just move. A sharp shove to the side of the chair with the flat of my boot sends him crashing onto the concrete—his skull connecting with a satisfying crack.
I turn back to her.
“I don’t want you in here.”
I can already see the damage unfolding behind her eyes—his words slithering in, trying to rot their way beneath her ribs.
“Go upstairs. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“No.”
Her voice is iron-wrapped fury.
“You lied. You said we’d do this together. This is my fight too.”
Her stare locks with mine, unflinching. Unapologetic.
Stubborn to the fucking end.
But she wants to be here? She wants to be part of sending this motherfucker back to hell. I can only imagine what she’s faced over the years with him, and there is part of me that wishes I could hand him to her on a silver platter for her to have her wicked way with.
But that would mean compromising her soul and sanity. And I don’t think this girl has the stomach for it, not for what I want to do to him.