Page 23 of All the Things We Buried

TWENTY TWO

DORIAN

TWO YEARS LATER

PRESENT DAY

S prinklers hissed in the garden, misting over the roses.

They bloomed again, fragile and blood-bright.

Inside the house, only the sound of silence remained.

There were no creaking floorboards when the door opened.

No echo of steps. Only the steady clicking of an old clock ticking away the hours.

Its hands moved slowly, not yet pointing to ten.

But if you walked further, through the hallway and into that room, the silence changed. The room where everything once breathed still pulsed with something unseen.

There was a table. And on the table sat a dollhouse.

Now the room had eighteen dolls. Each one was different. Different hair. Different eyes. Eyes that shifted in slow, haunting turns. They never stopped watching. Never stopped staring. All of them faced the dollhouse.

Inside that miniature house, tucked into a bed carved from walnut, a little man slept. And outside, in the dark, someone was watching.

He stood at the edge of the garden, staring up at her window.

Staring at the light. Waiting for it to go out.

He wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and a cap pulled low.

A broken man. Waiting for the moment when everything would quietly shut down, so he could sneak inside and see her for the first time in two years.

He took a step. Then another. Soundless.

I, Dorian Thorn, am back in Gloomsbury Manor.

I opened the front door. The floors had been swept and mopped. The air still held the sharp, fresh scent of cleaner. She had wiped the place down, as if trying to erase it. I walked up the stairs. Her bedroom door was open.

She lay there in her old white dress. Still. Her face had not changed. She was still beautiful. And I did not know why I ever thought she would be different.

Her arms were bare. The wounds had closed, but the scars remained. I could still read the words she had carved into her skin. I compared them to the handwriting on the bodies I buried in the garden.

They were not the same. This was not the cult’s work. This was hers. What she saw. What she did to herself. All of it came from her.

The eighteen missing children had all been sons and daughters of cult members. I gave them peace. I buried them in the backyard. There were eighty-four members in that cult. I hunted each one. I killed every last one.

I sealed their corpses behind the basement walls, left them to rot beside polaroids of the horrors they created. Torture. Cannibalism. Rituals where children were currency.

They were monsters. They were murderers.

And I felt good ending them. I spent two years soaked in blood and rage, doing it all for her. To protect her. To make sure no one would ever touch her again.

But now that I see her, something soft wakes inside me. Why?

After everything. After all the rage I carried. After all the people I killed.

Why do I still feel this?

But she chose Troy. Of all people, she chose Troy.

How could she? After everything I did? After everything I sacrificed?

That was the betrayal.

She gave herself to someone else. Let him hold her. Let him love her. Let him take what was mine.

But her heart. It always belonged to me.

Maybe she wanted to be loved too, just like I did. Maybe she hoped I was still alive. But I needed her to have closure.

To mourn us. To feel the burn of loss. To break her. And then to come back into her life and play with her, play with her mind.

I didn’t do it because I had no choice. I didn’t do it because I was bored. I did it because I wanted her to feel my absence before she ever felt my presence.

This was the real me. Raw. Unfiltered.

A broken man. An angry man. The kind of man who never had time.

A man who always chose himself first.

A narcissistic asshole painted in red flags.

And if she wanted to love me, then she would have to love all of me. Not the image she kept replaying in her head every time she closed her eyes. Not the boy she thought I was. The man I became.

I promised I would break her, because I knew her better than I knew myself. And when I make a promise, I always keep it.

I leaned in, my fingers barely grazing her cheek as I moved her dark hair aside. I saw a bruise under her eye.

He hit her. He fucking hit her.

My jaw locked. Something in me cracked open. I wanted to punch the air, punch the walls, destroy everything, because I hadn’t been there to stop it. Hadn’t been there to protect her.

No one touches what’s mine. Only I do.

I turned and walked out of her bedroom. Made my way back to the living room. I stood in the corner, staring out the window, watching shadows shift across the grass. But in my mind, all I saw was blood.

Their screams echoed back to me.

A year ago, Cameron found the Mechanic and the Cop. Told them I was still alive. Said he knew where the money was. We lured them in, easy as dragging bait through shallow water.

The first thing I did? Took their tongues.

Because of living alone for so long, every word from a stranger felt like a hammer to the skull. Silence was cleaner. More honest.

They’re rotting with the rest, beneath the house. And Cameron? He finished the job. Now he’s got a wife and kids. Changed man. Family guy. I wish I had his life. But maybe it was never mine to live.

And if you’re wondering if his life is better, the answer’s simple. It always is.

I heard the footsteps; she was coming down the stairs.

When she stepped into the living room, I saw her. And I couldn’t resist.

“Hello, little stepsister,” I said, watching her closely.

She gasped and spun around, confused, not knowing where the voice had come from.

I stepped forward. When she turned, my hand brushed hers.

“Dorian,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like glass.

“Shhh,” I said in a low voice. “Don’t speak.”

She shivered the moment my skin touched hers, and all I wanted was to kiss her. But my pride wouldn’t let me. That sick part of me, the one that always needed control, tightened its grip.

So I grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the wall. Her palms hit the wallpaper with a smack, and she cried out.

“Am I dreaming?” she whispered.

“No,” I said.

My hands moved under her nightdress, fingers gliding along her bare skin until they reached her hips. When I found her there, I pulled her hard against me. Her head fell to my chest, trembling.

“Break for me, Trouble.”

“I am already broken,” she whispered, her voice cracked and wet with tears.

I shoved her back against the wall again, harder this time, then stepped away.

“Why did you leave?” I asked.

“I had no choice,” she whispered.

“You always have a choice.”

“Not when it’s stolen from you,” she cried, trying to turn around.

Before she could, I was behind her again, pressing her against the wall, my body tight to hers.

“Liar,” I growled into her ear. “You’re a fucking liar, Trouble.”

I spun her to face me and looked straight into her eyes. Those ocean-blue eyes. And I drowned in them, just like I always did.

She pushed me away and ran for the stairs. But I caught her by the hair and yanked her back toward me. Her foot slipped. Her head hit the edge of the staircase with a soft thud.

“Fuck,” I said, breath catching.

Kill.

The voice came, low and cold.

But not her. Never her.

Blood.

I never wanted her blood.

My eyes rolled back, just like they always did when the clock struck 3:18 a.m. The tick of it echoed like a trigger in my brain. Drool slipped from the corner of my mouth as I carried her limp body up the stairs.

But before I reached the top step, my knees buckled. We collapsed together onto the floor.

Her eyes flew open. She screamed.

I crawled toward her, my limbs jerking like I was broken. Maybe I was.

She tried to drag herself away, her nails scraping the wood, but I caught her by the ankle and yanked her back to me.

She fought, kicking, squirming beneath me, but I pinned her down. Her wrists were in one of my hands, pressed above her head. My spit dripped onto her parted lips. She gasped.

With my free hand, I cupped her cheek, gently. My thumb swept over her mouth, smearing the drool away.

“Want some?”

I pressed my thumb to the curve of her lips. Another drop slid down. She hesitated, then licked it.

That was all it took. The grip she had on herself let go.

A heat bloomed between us, spreading like something cursed. She pulled me down to her. Our mouths crashed together, and I drowned in the taste of her. Tongues tangled, teeth clashed. Shivers rippled down my spine.

I had waited two years for this.

Two years of silence. Of distance. Of fucking restraint. And now, her skin was under my hands again. Her scent, her taste— mine.

I pushed up her dress, bunched it at her hips. My fingers slid down and found her soaked, dripping, aching pussy. Ready.

I nudged her thighs apart with my knee. My cock throbbed, straining against the black denim, aching for her heat.

I positioned her legs over mine, lifted her onto me, and she moved, grinding against the hardness she wanted so badly, wetness seeping into my jeans.

Her arms wrapped around my neck. Her breath so hot. Her body begging.

She wanted this.

But she didn’t deserve it. Not yet.

I laughed under my breath.

“You’re so fucking needy, Trouble,” I whispered, then pushed her back down onto the cold floor.

I stood, walking away.

She stayed on the floor, sitting up slowly, staring after me with eyes wide and burning. Starved.

They say that when you crave someone for so long, the longing rots into hunger. A thirst that twists your insides. And when you finally have them within reach, you’re trembling from the pressure of it, and you know you’ll tear them apart if you don’t step back.

That’s what I felt. That’s what I feared.

So I went down to the basement.

And I stayed.

Until I was cold monster again.