Chapter 45
JENNA
The elevator descends past floors I’ve memorized—past the medical level, past storage, into the depths of the compound where screams can’t escape concrete and steel.
My hand rests on the small curve of my belly, three months now, barely visible beneath Nikolai’s oversized shirt.
He stands behind me, solid and warm, his presence both comfort and promise.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs against my ear as the numbers count down. “I can handle it.”
“No.” My voice carries steel I didn’t know I possessed until Nikolai forged it in me. “This one’s mine.”
The doors slide open to reveal the interrogation level—a sterile corridor lined with soundproof cells. Our footsteps echo as Nikolai leads me to the third door on the right. He pauses, hand on the heavy steel handle.
“I’ve had him down here for three weeks. Three weeks of thinking about what he did to you. Are you ready to take your pound of flesh for everything he stole?”
I nod, and he opens the door.
Richard Moss sits shackled to a metal chair in the center of the concrete room.
Fifty-seven years old now, grayer than I remember, but still carrying the same cruel set to his mouth that haunted my nightmares for years.
His head snaps up when we enter, and I watch recognition dawn in his bloodshot eyes.
“Well, well. Little Jenna.” His voice carries that same mocking tone that used to make me flinch. “All grown up and playing with dangerous men. Some things never change.”
The words should trigger panic, should send me spiraling back to being that terrified girl locked in his basement. Instead, they wash over me like water off steel. I’ve faced real predators now, I’ve become one myself and he pales in comparison.
“Hello, Richard.” I step closer, close enough to smell his fear-sweat mixed with days of confinement. “Miss me?”
His laugh is harsh. “You always were a dramatic little bitch. What is this, a revenge fantasy? You think tying me up makes you tough now?”
Nikolai moves to the wall where tools hang in precise rows—knives, pliers, instruments designed for extracting information and pain. He selects a thin-bladed knife, testing its edge with his thumb.
“She doesn’t need to be tough,” Nikolai says conversationally, offering me the blade. “She just needed me to capture you.”
The weight of the knife feels perfect in my palm, balanced and eager. Richard’s eyes dart between us, and for the first time, uncertainty creeps into his expression.
“You won’t do it,” he sneers, but his voice wavers. “You were always weak. All those nights crying in that basement, begging me to stop. Remember how you used to promise you’d be good if I just—”
The blade slides between his ribs before he can finish. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to remind him who holds power now. His gasp of pain cuts through the concrete chamber.
“I remember everything,” I whisper, twisting the knife slightly. “Every broken bone. Every bruise. Every time you told me I was worthless.”
“Jenna, please—”
“Every time you came to my room at night.” The knife slides out, and I move to stand behind him. “Every time you made me believe it was my fault when that couldn’t control yourself and fucked me.”
Nikolai watches from the wall, arms crossed, predatory satisfaction radiating from his stance. This is my hunt now, my kill to make. He’s here to guide me, to catch me if I fall, but the blade belongs to me.
“Where should I start?” I ask him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes tell me his smile behind the mask is pure pride.
“Wherever he hurt you first.”
My hand finds Richard’s left wrist, just like my left wrist he broke because I dropped a plate.
“You broke this when I was twelve,” I tell him as he writhes against his restraints. “The doctor said it was a fall. I was so scared to tell the truth.”
“Jenna, stop, I’m sorry—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp as the blade. “You don’t get to be sorry now.”
Nikolai’s quiet instructions guide me. Where to cut to avoid major arteries. How deep to go to maximize pain without ending it too quickly? He teaches me the art of torture and how to turn brutality into craftsmanship.
“His ribs next,” Nikolai suggests. “Small cuts, just beneath the bone. It’ll burn like fire.”
Richard screams as I follow his guidance, the sound echoing off concrete walls that have heard worse. Blood runs down his abs, painting abstract patterns across skin that once seemed so frightening, so repulsive.
“Please,” Richard gasps. “I’ll do anything. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”
“You’re right.” I lean close enough to whisper in his ear. “You’re going to disappear. But first, you’re going to pay for every night you tried to make me believe I deserved what you did.”
Hours pass in a blur of blood and confession.
I make him admit to every physical and sexual assault, every broken bone, every psychological wound he carved into a child’s mind.
Nikolai guides me through anatomy lessons written in blood—where nerves cluster, where pain lives brightest, how to prolong it.
When Richard finally breaks, sobbing and begging, I feel a shift inside me. Not satisfaction. The fear I’ve carried for so many years crumbles like ash, leaving space for strength to grow.
“I think he’s learned enough,” I tell Nikolai, stepping back from my handiwork.
Richard’s head lolls forward, consciousness flickering. Blood pools beneath his chair, and his breathing comes in ragged gasps.
“Would you like to finish it?” Nikolai asks, offering me a clean blade.
I shake my head. “He’s not worth it. He never was.”
Nikolai moves behind Richard with fluid grace, one hand tilting his head back to expose his throat. The knife slides across his neck in a single, smooth motion—professional, precise, final.
Blood sprays across the concrete floor as Richard’s eyes go wide, then empty. The man who haunted my nightmares for so long becomes nothing more than a memory.
“It’s done,” Nikolai says simply, wiping the blade clean.
Richard Moss is dead. The monster who stole my childhood, who broke my bones and violated my body and convinced me I was worthless—he’s gone. Forever.
“How do you feel?” Nikolai asks, studying my face with intense focus.
“Alive.” The word comes out as a whisper, then stronger. “I feel alive and stronger than I can ever remember having felt.”
Blood covers my hands, my arms, and spatters across my face and clothes. I should be horrified by what I’ve just done. Instead, I feel electric in ways I’ve never experienced. The violence has unlocked a primal side of me that’s been caged since I was a child.
His mask can’t hide the pride radiating from him, the satisfaction of watching me reclaim my power.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Covered in his blood, carrying my baby. Perfect.”
The words shouldn’t turn me on. The situation is deranged, twisted, soaked in fresh violence. But heat floods through me anyway, desperate and immediate. Adrenaline mixes with triumph, with the headiness of finally taking control.
“Nik.” My voice comes out breathy, needy. “I need—”
He’s on me before I finish speaking, backing me against the concrete wall with hungry intensity. He lifts his mask and his mouth finds mine, claiming and desperate. I taste copper and violence on his lips, and it makes me wild.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growls against my throat. “My perfect predator. My beautiful Fury.”
His hands roam my body, worshiping every curve changed by pregnancy. When his palms cup my fuller breasts, I arch into his touch with desperate need. The baby has made me more sensitive everywhere, and his calloused fingers feel like brands against tender skin.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, tearing at my blood-stained shirt. “My woman.”
Buttons scatter across the floor as he strips me with impatient hands. Cool air hits my exposed skin, making me shiver, but his touch burns hot enough to chase away the chill. When his mouth fastens on my nipple, I cry out at the intensity.
“So responsive,” he murmurs between licks and bites. “Pregnancy makes you even more sensitive. I love watching you fall apart for me.”
My hands fumble with his tactical vest, desperate to feel skin against skin.
He helps me, shedding weapons and gear with efficient movements.
When his shirt hits the floor, I run my palms over the tattoos marking his chest. Shedding my jeans and leaving them on the floor with my panties, I stand before him naked.
“You took back your power today,” he says, lifting me against the wall. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and I can feel his hardness pressing against my core through his pants. “Fuck, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I want you,” I gasp as he grinds against me. “Right here. Right now. I need to feel you inside me.”
His laugh is dark. “My bloodthirsty little Fury wants to be fucked next to her stepfather’s corpse? Christ, you’re perfect.”
The concrete is cold against my back, the new pet name catches me off guard and I make a mental note to resolve later. Nikolai’s body burns like a furnace where he presses against me rendering the chill at my back nonexistent.
“Look at you,” he breathes, fingers finding my wetness. “Soaked already. Killing him turned you on, didn’t it?”
I should be ashamed of how violence affects me. Instead, I buck against his hand, chasing more friction. “Yes. God, yes.”
“My beautiful predator.” He works two fingers inside me, thumb circling my clit. “You’re going to come on my hand while your stepfather’s body gets cold ten feet away.”
The words push me closer to the edge, making my inner walls clench around his fingers. The combination of violence and desire, death and life, past trauma and present power—it’s intoxicating.
“That’s it,” he encourages as I writhe against his hand. “Come for me, baby. Show me how good it feels to be free.”
The orgasm hits like lightning, arcing through my body with devastating intensity. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream, tasting salt and steel and barely restrained violence.
Before the aftershocks fade, he’s freed his cock from his pants, the steel piercing catching the harsh fluorescent light. I reach down to guide him to my entrance, desperate to be filled, to be claimed, to celebrate this twisted victory in the most primal way possible.
“Please,” I beg. “I need you inside me.”
He enters me in one brutal thrust, stretching me around his considerable girth. The piercing drags against sensitive walls, making me keen with pleasure-pain. Three months pregnant, my body is more sensitive than ever, every nerve ending electric under his touch.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he groans. “Tight and hot and perfect. My woman.”
His thrusts start slow, controlled, but violence and adrenaline fuel a wildness in both of us. Soon he’s pounding into me with desperate intensity, each stroke driving me higher up the wall. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes off concrete walls.
“You’re mine,” he snarls against my throat. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp, nails raking down his back. “All yours.”
“The mother of my children. My perfect killer.”
His words push me toward another peak, the praise mixing with possession in ways that shouldn’t work but absolutely do. When he shifts the angle, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, I shatter.
“Nikolai!” His name tears from my throat as I come, inner walls clamping down on his length like a vice.
“That’s it, baby. Come on my cock.”
He follows me over the edge with a roar, spilling deep inside me while I’m still clenching around him. His release seems to last forever, hot spurts painting my inner walls.
We remain joined for long minutes afterward, both breathing hard, both covered in blood and sweat and the evidence of what we’ve just done. Richard’s corpse sits ten feet away, a reminder of old trauma finally put to rest.
“How do you feel?” Nikolai asks again, but his voice is softer now, tender in ways only I get to hear.
“Perfect.” I rest my forehead against his, sharing breath and space and this moment of absolute rightness. “He can never hurt me again.”
“Never,” he agrees fiercely. “And our daughter will never know fear like you did. She’ll grow up protected, loved, cherished.”
His hand finds the small curve of my belly. We found out the sex at the last scan, and she’s growing safe inside me while her father eliminates threats and her mother learns to embrace her own darkness.
“She’ll be perfect,” I whisper. “Strong like her father. Fierce like her mother.”
“And completely ours.”
Later, after we’ve cleaned up and disposed of Richard’s body in the compound’s industrial incinerator, we lie tangled together in our bed. Dried blood still stains my fingernails despite scrubbing, a reminder of the violence that set me free.
“No more nightmares,” I tell him, tracing patterns on his chest. “For the first time in years, I’m not afraid of going to sleep.”
“Good.” His arms tighten around me, protective and possessive. “You never have to be afraid again. Not of him, not of anyone.”
I absolutely believe him. In this underground fortress surrounded by predators who chose to become my family, carrying the child of the most dangerous man I know, I’m finally completely safe.
Richard Moss is dead. The past is buried with him.
And I’ve never felt more alive.