Chapter 29
twenty-nine
Jackson
The warehouse doors seal behind us with a dull metallic thud that kills every sound from the world outside.
The air inside is already saturated, thick with the sour, metallic reek of old blood that’s soaked into the concrete long enough to turn cloying, almost sweet at the edges.
It coats my tongue the second I breathe in, settles heavy in my chest like damp rot.
Paul is right where they left him.
Tied to the steel chair in the center of the empty space. Thick zip ties bite deep into his wrists and ankles, the plastic embedded so far the skin around them is swollen purple and weeping clear fluid mixed with blood.
His head hangs forward, chin resting on his chest, dried black streaks running from his nose and split mouth down his shirtfront. His breathing is shallow and wet, each pull a faint gurgling rasp that says he’s hovering right on the edge of unconsciousness, body too battered to hold much longer.
I stop. Just stand there.
Staring at him.
And all I see is her. On that floor.
The blood spreading slow beneath her.
The way she didn’t move.
The image slams into me so hard my ribs ache. Something in my chest twists, sharp, violent, like a hand reaching in and squeezing until I can’t pull air.
Zach steps forward first. I follow without thought. The hospital, the machines, her small hand limp in mine for hours, none of it exists anymore. Only him. Only what he did.
His head lifts a fraction as we get close. Eyelids flutter. Eyes glassy, unfocused, then they find us. Recognition hits like ice water. Then pure terror floods his face.
“Please, ” he croaks, voice cracked and thick with phlegm and blood. “I didn’t...”
My fist crashes into his jaw before the rest can come out.
The impact is wet and heavy, bone crunching under my knuckles, his head whipping sideways so violently the chair skids an inch, metal screeching on concrete. Blood sprays in a hot arc from his split lip, splattering my wrist, warm and sticky.
“You didn’t what?” I snarl, grabbing the front of his shirt in both fists and yanking him upright hard enough the zip ties tear fresh skin, blood welling instantly around his wrists in bright beads. “You didn’t take her? You didn’t touch her? You didn’t think you could fucking have her?”
He chokes, blood pouring from his mouth now, bubbling as he tries to speak. I feel every frantic shudder in his body, every useless jerk against the restraints.
“You had her on the floor,” I say, voice dropping lower, darker, because the memory is burning behind my eyes, too vivid, too sharp. “You had your hands on her. You pinned her down like she was yours to break.”
I hit him again. Harder. The second punch lands on the same spot, skin splitting wider, cartilage giving with a wet snap. His head snaps back, a strangled cry ripping out of him. Blood sheets down his chin, drips onto my hands in thick ropes.
I don’t stop.
I hit him again. And again.
No rhythm. No control. Just raw, ugly impact.
Every helpless second in that car racing to her.
Every minute watching her chest rise and fall on machines because she couldn’t do it herself.
Every breath I took thinking we might lose her forever, it all comes out here, in fists that split skin and crack bone.
“You thought you could take her from us?” I snarl, shaking him until the chair rattles, until more blood wells around the zip ties and runs in steady streams down his forearms. “You thought you could just...keep her? Break her? Make her scream for you?”
Zach steps in beside me.
His movements are quieter. More deliberate.
But the violence is just as deep.
His fist drives into Paul’s ribs, once, twice, each hit placed exactly where it will do the most damage without killing him yet. The sound is sickening, wet crunch of bone, forced exhale exploding in a spray of blood and spit.
“You drugged her,” Zach says, voice low and steady in a way that makes the words cut deeper. “You kept her like that. You watched her while she couldn’t fight back.”
His jaw clenches so hard the muscle stands out in sharp relief.
His next hit lands harder, another rib gives with an audible snap. Paul folds forward as far as the restraints allow, body convulsing, gasping wetly for air.
“You carved into her,” Zach adds, and there’s a crack in his voice now, just a hairline fracture showing the grief underneath the steel. “You tried to take what wasn’t yours.”
Paul wheezes, tries to speak. “I didn’t, they told me—”
I hit him again, my fist slamming into his cheekbone. It collapses under the blow with a wet, crunching give. Blood sprays across my shirt, my arms, hot and coppery.
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t you fucking dare try to explain this.”
My chest heaves. Hands shake. Knuckles are split wide open, blood slicking every punch, mixing with his until I can’t tell whose is whose.
Zach grabs Paul’s jaw, forces his head up, locks eyes with him.
“She’s ours,” he says quietly, dangerously quiet. “You thought you could win. That you had her. That you would get away with it and now you are going to die here, forgotten, alone and with no one coming to save you.”
Paul makes a broken, wet sound, half sob, half choke. His body sags, eyes rolling, consciousness starting to slip.
“No,” I growl, grabbing him again, shaking him hard enough fresh blood wells from his wrists. “No. You don’t get to check out. You stay awake for this.”
I hit him again.
My knuckles split wider. Pain flares up my arms. I barely register it.
It goes on longer than it should.
Longer than I thought I could keep going.
Until my shoulders burn, my arms feel leaden, my breathing comes in harsh, ragged pulls.
Until every punch feels empty, nothing left but exhaustion and the echo of rage.
I step back first.
Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, I won’t ever stop.
Zach steps back with me, chest rising and falling hard, eyes still fixed on Paul like he’s measuring how much more the man can take.
Silence falls. Thick. Heavy.
Then Elijah moves.
I feel the shift before I see it, the air turning colder, heavier, like the room itself is holding its breath.
He steps forward slowly. Deliberately. Face completely blank, no rage, no flush, no tremor. Just smooth, emotionless calm that makes something cold and tight coil in my gut.
He picks up the knife from the metal tray.
Not grabbing it.
Selecting it.
Turning it once in his hand, studying the edge like it’s an instrument he’s used a thousand times.
Paul tries to lift his head. Tries to focus. Breathing uneven, broken.
“Wait.” he chokes out. “Please—”
Elijah doesn’t react to the name. Doesn’t interrupt.
He just looks at him.
And when he speaks, his voice is quiet. Flat. Almost gentle in its emptiness.
“You don’t get to beg.”
The words are barely a whisper.
“You don’t get to ask for mercy after what you did to her.”
He steps closer.
“This isn’t going to be quick,” Elijah continues, tone unchanged, almost conversational. “You’re not going to pass out. You’re not going to die before I decide you’re done.”
Paul’s breathing turns frantic, short, panicked gasps. His whole body starts shaking, realization crashing over him too late.
“I’m going to take you apart slowly,” Elijah says. “And you’re going to stay awake long enough to feel every single second of it.”
The knife moves.
Precise.
Surgical.
The first cut is a clean, shallow line across the collarbone, deep enough to part skin and shallow muscle in one smooth stroke. Bright arterial red wells instantly, sheeting down his chest in hot pulses.
Paul’s scream is immediate, high, raw, tearing through the warehouse and bouncing off the walls until it feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once.
Elijah doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even blink. He continues.
Second cut, inside of the left forearm, slow and deliberate, peeling back skin and fascia until pale tendon gleams underneath. Blood runs in thick rivulets, dripping onto the concrete in steady plops.
Third cut, across the meat of the thigh, deeper this time, parting muscle in layers. Paul thrashes against the restraints, screams turning hoarse and wet as blood sprays in fine arcs with every convulsion.
Every movement is measured. Intentional. Placed to maximize pain, to prolong consciousness, to make sure nothing is wasted.
“Keep him awake,” Elijah says, calm, clinical.
One of Christian’s men steps forward instantly. Cracks an ammonia capsule and holds it under Paul’s nose.
Paul jerks violently, coughing, choking, eyes flying wide as consciousness slams back into him just as it starts to fade.
It happens again. And again.
Every time his screams weaken, every time his head lolls and his eyes roll back, they drag him back with sharp chemical burns to the sinuses.
Every plea, every broken sob, Elijah ignores.
He just keeps cutting.
A thin line along the ribs, exposing bone in places. A slow circle around the navel, peeling skin back in a neat flap. A deep slash across the palm, severing tendons so the fingers curl uselessly.
Blood coats everything. The chair. The floor. Elijah’s hands, forearms, sleeves. It drips from his chin in slow, heavy drops.
His face never changes.
Not once.
No sweat. No tremor. No flicker of satisfaction or disgust. Just cold, absolute focus.
I can’t look away.
I don’t want to. That’s what terrifies me most.
Because deep in my chest there’s a dark, vicious satisfaction, hot and ugly, watching Paul scream the way she must have screamed. Watching him bleed the way she bled. Watching him break piece by piece.
And at the same time, something colder coils tighter. Because this isn’t rage. This is something else.
Something precise. Unstoppable. Without mercy or limit. Something that is being born right here, in this room, while I watch.
By the time Elijah steps back, Paul is barely recognizable.
His body is a ruin of deliberate wounds, skin peeled, muscle exposed, blood pooled thick beneath the chair in a dark, spreading lake. His chest rises in shallow, wet hitches. His eyes are open but glassy, fixed on nothing. The only sound left is a faint, bubbling whimper that fades into silence.
Elijah sets the knife down with careful precision, like it matters how it lies on the tray.
Blood drips steadily from his fingertips onto the concrete, soft, rhythmic plops.
His expression is unchanged. Complete.
Christian steps forward beside us, voice low.
“There’s no going back from this.”
I don’t look at him. I’m still watching Elijah.
“That man is fully Bellandi now,” Christian says. “And he’s never going to be anything else again.”
The words sink in heavy.
“If anything threatens her,” he adds, tone sharpening, “he will act like this. Without hesitation. Without thought. Even if that threat comes from you.”
That hits harder than any punch tonight.
I swallow. Slowly.
“You need to decide now,” Christian says, “if you can stand beside that. Because that’s what standing beside him means.”
I watch Elijah.
The way he stands there, still, blood-streaked, unshaken. The way everything in him seems forged into something final. A flicker moves through my chest, not quite fear, but close enough to taste it.
Then I think of her.
Lying in that bed, still not waking up.
The blood.
The stillness.
What he did to her.
The flicker burns away.
“There’s nothing that would stop me from standing next to her,” I say. My voice is steady again.
Zach nods beside me.
“Same,” he says.
Christian studies us for a long second, then nods.
“I’d suggest you clean up,” he says quietly. “You don’t want her waking up and seeing you like this.”
My chest tightens at the words.
Waking up.
The possibility of it lands different now, sharper, more fragile.
Christian turns to Elijah.
“I’ll take care of the rest.”
Elijah doesn’t look at him.
“We’re not done,” he says. “Vargas is still out there.”
Christian’s face doesn’t change.
“We’ll deal with that,” he replies. “After she wakes up.”
A beat. Then Elijah nods, once.
We leave and for the first time since we carried her out, the silence between us feels heavier.
Deeper.
Like something irrevocable has been sealed in blood tonight.