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She shakes her head, the knife in her hand coming dangerously close to her temple.

Closing the gap between us, I reach for her wrist, pulling it away from her head.

“You’re not getting out of this that easy,” I whisper. “Now finish what you started. Think of everything he’s done to you.”To us. “Let that motivate every strike.” I instruct her and this time… she listens.

She unleashes on him. Stabbing his flesh like a pincushion, and the desire I had to punish her dwindles. Bloodshed. Revenge. All of it, present before my eyes, acts as an aphrodisiac more than it does a warning flare or deterrent.

“You lied!” she repeats. Her yelling, though bold, grows more distraught with each stab and the mayhem that ensues becomes her, just as much as it becomes more apparent that I need her violence as much as I need her.

I take a step back from her just enough that I have better access to her already torn pants and continue the job I started on them, shredding them until they are no longer on her body and tossed on the ground.

Keeping behind her, I reach around and over to her pussy, dipping all but my thumb—which I reserve for her clit—into her warmth.

She trembles upon contact. Arching her back enough that it forces my hand deeper.

I keep it there, working her as she exacts a revenge that’s been written in the stars, waiting for her to seize.

“That’s it. Let it all out,” I encourage her.Let it go.

Just how it’s meant to be.

Just like how she wrote about in her sick journal.

Lifting my free hand, I snap my fingers for one of the Cross members to see.

“Yes?” A member runs over to me, eager for instruction.

“Bring a bucket.” He nods. “No,” I stop to correct myself. “Make that multiple buckets.” The eagerness increases as he instructs the others.

Seconds pass before cloaked members gather around us with buckets in hand. Two walk ahead of the others and place them in front of the man, who I was forced to call ‘Dad’, lays in the balance. The buckets are set down to form a V-shape in front of him, aimed to collect the splatter from different angles.

Araceli doesn’t notice, she’s lost in a trance. Too preoccupied with making him pay for everything he’s done to her, and all those who are not here physically to fight for what was taken from them.

“You killed her! You’re the killer! You killed all of them!” she pants.

My father. The pastor. The murderer.

The truth, which I’ve had more time to process than Araceli, still hits like a whip. All this time, he fooled people into thinking our town was under attack by the enemy. Yet the only enemy that existed was the one he worked so hard to keep hidden.

“That’s it, little sister. Tell him the truth that he has denied. Gut. Him.”

The heathens around me pick up on the last of my instructions, all chanting in unison.

Gut him.

Gut him.

Gut him.

Araceli starts to chant as well.

“Gut him,” she breathes. Her pussy clenching around me as she says it.

She repeats it over again, growing closer to her orgasm as she says it. She’s so close that I can practically feel it reaching the horizon, squeezingaround the calloused fingers I have jammed inside her. So. Fucking. Close. Though I fear if I let her finish like this, she won’t be able to finish the larger job. So I pull back, opting to watch instead.

We can’t have that, not when we have a Ferryman to feed after all.

She mewls from the absence of my hands, but the betrayal of me leaving her hanging isn’t enough to stop her. Her movements become more erratic. Drawing deep gashes into his bare chest like she is carving a pumpkin.