Page 94 of Behind the Shadows

Kip’s tone darkened. “That’s how narcissists work. They don’t see betrayal. They see creation. He doesn’t regret what he did to you—he thinks it forged you. That your pain was part of some divine design.”

“He sold his daughter,” I whispered, “and now he thinks he’s my father again?”

“He never stopped,” Kip said. “Not in his head. Are you surviving? That just confirmed his god complex. He thinks you became strong because of him.”

I looked at Draco’s bloated corpse, the snakes writhing beneath his skin.

“He thinks this makes us even.”

“No.” Kip stepped closer; his stare locked on mine. “He thinks this makes him worthy of your forgiveness. Of your loyalty. Of your fucking love.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink. Inside that rotting shell, slithery, gross things thrashed—trapped, waking, coiled in hell.

Just like I had been once.

My jaw trembled. “He turned Draco into a sermon.”

“He turned Draco into a sacrifice,” Kip said. “The snakes, the body, the message—it’s biblical. He thinks he’s cleaning house. Ridding you of your abuser. Like a father should.”

“But only now that I’ve survived,” I whispered. “Only now that I’m something he can claim.”

“Yes,” Kip said. “Because now you’re the monster he designed. And monsters belong to him.”

I gulped as the snakes squirmed beneath Draco’s ruined skin, and I didn’t scream again. I didn’t cry. I stopped feeling altogether.

A buzzing silence filled my ears, as if my brain was trying to shield me from what I wasn’t supposed to survive.

But I had.

Again.

Always.

I bent down, plucked the bloodstained note from Draco’s shirt, and held it between two fingers.

You’re welcome. —Dad.

A tremor passed through me. Not from fear. Not this time.

Something colder. Something sharper.

Kip watched me cautiously. “Holland?”

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. In that strange, terrifying way that meant I wasn’t.

I turned and walked out of the bathroom.

The world could explode behind me, and I wouldn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Kip didn’t say anything as he wrapped Draco’s body in plastic sheeting. Efficient. Silent. His movements were clinical, practiced, and detached. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

“I’ll be back for the blood,” he said, dragging the corpse down the hallway toward the back door.

I nodded, but I was already walking toward my bedroom. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Maybe bleach. Maybe something to scrub the walls clean.

What if the Pied Piper sat on your bed or, worse, put Draco there?