24. The Revelation
The Revelation
Nathan
The documents are spread across my desk like a confession.
I found them an hour ago—tucked behind the loose panel in her closet, hidden beneath a stack of sweaters she never wears. I wasn't looking for them. I was looking for her. I wanted to surprise her, to take her somewhere, to pretend for a few hours that we were something other than what we are.
Instead, I found this.
Pages and pages of notes. Dates. Names. Locations. Bank accounts. Shipping routes. Everything I've built over the past year, documented in her careful, steady handwriting.
She's been building a case against me.
She's been documenting my operations, my contacts, my movements. She's been gathering evidence—not for the police, never for the police—but for something else. Someone else.
My father.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. She's not just trying to stop me. She's trying to destroy me. She's been working with him—with Aleksander—to bring me down from the inside.
The woman I love. The woman I've given everything to. The woman who holds my heart in her hands like it's something she can crush whenever she wants.
She's been betraying me from the start.
I don't remember walking to her room.
I don't remember the halls I passed or the servants I ignored or the doors I opened. I just remember the rage—hot and sharp and all-consuming—and the need to find her, to confront her, to make her understand what she's done.
I push open her door without knocking.
She's sitting on the bed with Ashlynn. They're reading together—some book with a worn cover, the pages yellowed with age. Ashlynn looks up when I enter, her pale blue eyes widening with surprise.
"Mr. Mire—"
"Get out."
The words are flat. Cold. Final.
Ashlynn doesn't move. She looks at Monika, then back at me, her face creased with concern.
"I said get out."
"Mr. Mire, perhaps you should—"
I don't let her finish.
I cross the room in three strides. My hand finds her throat and I squeeze. She gasps, her hands clawing at my wrist, her eyes bulging with shock.
"Nathan!" Monika's voice is sharp. "What are you doing?"
I don't answer. I pull the knife from my pocket—the one I always carry, the one I've used a hundred times—and I drive it into Ashlynn's stomach.
The woman's eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. No sound comes out.
I pull the knife out. I stab her again. And again. And again.
Blood spreads across her white uniform like a blooming flower. She crumples, her body folding in on itself, and I grab her by the collar and throw her onto the bed.
She lands beside Monika. Her blood soaks into the white sheets, spreading in dark, ugly stains. Her eyes are still open. Still staring. Still seeing nothing.
Monika screams.
I grab her before she can move—before she can run, before she can fight, before she can do anything but watch. My hand closes around her arm, my fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise. I drag her toward the bed.
"No—no—Ashlynn—"
"Look at her."
She's fighting me. Her nails rake down my arm, drawing blood. Her body twists and bucks, trying to escape. But I'm stronger. I'm always stronger.
"Look at her!" I force her face toward the bed, toward the body of the woman who raised me, who fed me, who sang me to sleep when I was a child. "Look at what you made me do."
"I didn't—I didn't—"
"You betrayed me." I spin her around, my face inches from hers. "You've been documenting my operations. You've been building a case. You've been working with my father to destroy me."
Her eyes are wide. Wet. Full of tears and terror and something else—something that looks almost like defiance.
"I was trying to save you."
"Save me?" I laugh. It's a terrible sound, hollow and raw. "You were trying to destroy me. There's a difference."
"I was trying to stop you. To save you from yourself."
"You can't save me." I grab her by the hair, yanking her head back. "No one can save me. Not you. Not my father. Not Gabriel. I'm beyond saving. I've always been beyond saving."
She doesn't answer. She just looks at me—at the blood on my hands, the madness in my eyes—and I see something in her face that I've never seen before.
Fear. Real fear. The kind that comes from knowing you're about to die.
"You're going to pay for what you've done," I say. "You're going to pay for betraying me."
I throw her onto the bed.
She lands hard, her body bouncing off the mattress, her head nearly hitting the headboard. Ashlynn's blood is everywhere—soaking into the sheets, staining Monika's clothes, filling the air with the thick, coppery smell of death.
She tries to scramble away. I grab her ankle and yank her back.
"Don't." My voice is low. Dangerous. "Don't run. Don't fight. Just take what's coming to you."
"No—Nathan, please—"
"Please?" I laugh. "You're begging me? Now? After everything you've done?"
She's crying. The tears are streaming down her face, mixing with Ashlynn's blood on her cheeks. She looks like a painting—a beautiful, tragic, bloody painting.
I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Remorse. The kind of thing a normal person would feel when they've just murdered someone and are about to assault the woman they love.
I feel nothing.
Or maybe I feel everything, and I've just learned to bury it so deep that it doesn't touch me anymore.
I flip her onto her stomach. She screams. She claws at the sheets, trying to get away, but I'm already on top of her, my weight pinning her down, my hands tearing at her clothes.
"Stop—Nathan, stop—"
"I'm not going to stop." I yank her pants down, exposing her to the cold air. "You wanted to destroy me? You wanted to take everything from me? Then I'm going to take everything from you."
I don't prepare her. I don't care if she's ready. I just position myself and thrust inside her.
She screams.
It's a terrible sound—high and sharp and full of pain. Not pleasure. Not even tolerance. Pure, unadulterated agony.
I don't stop.
I fuck her like I hate her. Because I do. I hate her for betraying me. I hate her for making me love her. I hate her for being the only person in the world who ever made me feel like I could be something other than a monster.
And I hate myself for what I'm doing to her.
"You wanted this," I growl, my hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing. "You wanted to be mine. You wanted to be part of this family. Well, this is what it means to be part of this family. This is what it means to be mine."
She's crying. She's fighting. She's trying to escape, but I'm too strong, too heavy, too relentless.
I fuck her harder. Deeper. I don't care if I'm hurting her. I don't care if she's bleeding. I just want to feel something other than the rage.
"Say my name," I demand. "Say it."
She doesn't answer. She just keeps crying, keeps fighting, keeps trying to get away.
"Say it!"
"Nathan—"
"Louder."
"Nathan—"
"Say it like you mean it."
"NATHAN—"
"That's it." I feel her body start to give up, start to surrender, start to accept what's happening. "That's it. Take it. Take all of it. This is what you deserve."
I come with a growl, my body shuddering against hers. I bury myself inside her, filling her, claiming her in the worst possible way.
When it's over, I don't move. I just lie there, on top of her, surrounded by blood and death and the wreckage of everything we could have been.
I pull out of her slowly.
She doesn't move. She just lies there, her face buried in the pillow, her body limp and broken. Ashlynn's blood is still spreading beneath us, staining the sheets, staining everything.
I stand up. I tuck myself back into my pants. I look at her—at the woman I love—and I feel something shift in my chest.
Not guilt. Not remorse. Something else.
Satisfaction.
She betrayed me. She paid the price. That's how this world works. That's how it's always worked.
"You should clean yourself up," I say. "You look like hell."
She doesn't respond. She doesn't move. She just lies there, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
I walk toward the door. I pause at the threshold, looking back at her.
"Next time you betray me," I say, "it won't be Ashlynn. It'll be my father. Or my brother. Someone you actually care about that I slaughter and fuck you over."
She lifts her head. Her eyes are red, her face swollen, her lips bloody. She looks at me—at the monster I've become—and I see something in her eyes that I've never seen before.
Hate.
Pure, unadulterated hate.
"I'll kill you," she whispers. "Someday. I'll kill you for this."
I smile. It's a beautiful smile. A terrible smile.
"I'd like to see you try."
I walk out of the room. I close the door behind me.
The hallway is quiet.
I walk toward my office, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The portraits on the walls watch me pass—my mother, my father's ancestors, the women who've been claimed by this family and never quite escaped.
I stop in front of my mother's portrait. She looks down at me with those dark eyes, the same eyes I see in the mirror every morning.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry for what I've become."
I continue walking.
I don't sleep that night.
I sit in my office, staring at the wall, and I think about what I've done. I think about Ashlynn's blood on my hands. I think about Monika's face—the terror, the pain, the hate.
I think about the way she looked at me. The way she said she'd kill me.
I believe her. I believe she'll try.
And I don't care.
Because I'm past caring. I'm past everything. I'm the monster she always knew I was, and I'm finally embracing it.
I pick up the phone. I make a call.
"I need a cleanup crew," I say. "Monika's room. Now."
The voice on the other end doesn't hesitate. "Understood."
I hang up. I stare at the wall.
I think about Monika. About the way she felt beneath me. About the way she screamed.
I should feel guilty. I should feel ashamed.
I feel nothing other than pure satisfaction and a dose of arousal.
I close my eyes. I see her face. Her steady eyes. Her steady hands. The small furrow between her brows.
"I love you," I whisper. "I love you, and I hate you, and I don't know how to tell the difference anymore."
The city outside my window is dark. The night is heavy. The world is still moving without me.
I sit in the darkness and wait for the sun to rise.