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Blood for blood. Eye for an eye, I hum to myself as I stare at the loaded dump trailer parked in front of me. The control buttons, with their bold crimson hue, the same shade as the blood staining my fingertips, call to me, beckoning me to press them.

My hand lifts, hovering over the up-arrow control. The skeletal design permanently etched on the top of my palm that spreads its black and gray trail along each of my fingers, is just one of many reminders of how far I’ve fallen from the person I used to be. The old me would never muddy my skin with ink. Hell, the old me wouldn’t have had the fucking balls to do a fraction of the things I’ve done this evening alone.

But the fact remains, I’m here…finally. I’m so close. So damn close that I can feel the finish line nearing. Fuck . I can practically taste it. The adrenaline rush is all-consuming, and as my inked hand glides to the control, eagerness embeds itself in my fingers, causing them to buzz in anticipation.

Though, as I stand here, with rows of tombstones cluttering my periphery, a part of me wonders if I’ve taken this too far. Even with the plummet my conscience has taken, the consequences of what I’m about to do isn’t lost on me. Not even I can deny what will happen once I press that button. The aftermath that awaits us both is as permanent as the scars she left me with. Which should frighten me, but I’d be lying if I said that kind of destruction isn’t what I’ve been a fiend for since she corrupted my heart, my body, and my fucking mind with the poison that is her existence in my life.

“Harlan, please!” Araceli whines. The desperation in her voice is impossible to ignore, but it doesn’t deter me like it should. All her pathetic cry does is solidify my decision.

Ignoring the onslaught of her cries, I slam my finger on the red button with the up arrow. “Sorry,” I grunt loud enough that she can hear me as the machine roars to life. Rocks and loose debris buried within the dirt-filled dump box click and clack against the metal basin as it makes its slow but steady ascent upward. “You asked for this.”

What did she think would happen?

Did she seriously think after all this time I’d simply forget the promise she made?

That I’d let her escape me?

Escape the truth?

All without consequence?

Absolutely not.

Never.

“You can’t do this!” Araceli screams.

Wrong. Yes, I can, and look at that… I’m doing it.

“Shut up,” I quip, now standing over the pronounced ditch made special just for her.

This is all her fault, and now, in no time at all, the dirt will begin to pour directly into the six-foot-deep hole in the ground where she lay, giving her no-where to go without any option but to submit to me because I make the rules now… not her.

“You’re sick, Harlan. Fucking sick!”

Her eyes meet mine, and her facial expression betrays the exasperation of her words. She looks scared… she should be. All her plans are now in disarray. Her destiny, something she foolishly believed she had control over, now hangs in the balance. All those ho pes and dreams are now a pile of loose strands waiting for a puppeteer to pick them up and manipulate her fate. I am her destiny. I am the sailboat granting her passage. She’s just a pawn, a measly passenger whose time has run out.

“Want some company?” I tease her, lifting my boot off the ground, moving it side to side, her gaze following it like a pendulum as I hover the open pit.

The usually bright cognac shade of her irises now reduced to a tormented and harrowing plea.

“Fuck you!” she spews. Adorably so, with a scrunch of her nose that’s practically begging me to take my foot and pull it back, and to add to the spillage since the trailer is pouring it out too slowly for my liking.

“Soon,” I bellow, stifling the imagery of how good she will feel, one last time.

“This isn’t you.” Her argument is mooted the second my boot drags back and forth on the ground, adding to the assortment of dirt piling into where she lay. An inescapable grin curls my lips, watching the broken fragments of earth shoot out from the sole of my boot. Anger dances on her face as dust wisps her way, forming debris-filled clouds around her. She can pretend this isn’t what she wants, but no amount of huffing and puffing can distract from the secret thrill that I know this is giving her. This is everything she wants. Her perfect ending. Gifted to her in a dirty, brown, deep gaping hole in the fucking ground.

Stubborn as ever, even as her face is being pummeled, her gaze is unwavering. Searing into mine with the same dark stare that has tempted me as many times as it’s deceived me.

“Please.” Another whimpered plea, this time breathless with a hint of surrender that she and I both know is a farce. This is what she does. She manipulates anything and anyone in an attempt to get her way. But giving her what she wants has never benefited me, and sure as hell won’t do either of us any favors, not now at least—it’s too late. She made sure of that .

Ignoring her piss-poor acting skills and the pain she has so conveniently forgotten she caused me— yet again —I take hold of the bloody knife and jump into the open grave plot. Becoming one with the earth and grime, I land right on top of her. Araceli squeals from the impact of my bones crashing onto her, and the whimper that follows, leaking from those pouty lips of hers, is like music to my ears.

“Hurry,” she pants. Strength suddenly finds her limbs as her hand taps at my waist. Her trembling fingers find my belt.

“You want it don’t you?”

She shakes her head. Yes.

“How badly do you want it?”

“So. Fucking. Bad.”

I shift to my knees, giving myself the room I need to undo my belt and lower my pants. Once my cock is freed, I reposition myself over top of her. Reveling in the fact that I can feel her body and willpower dwindling by the second. She’s too weak to fight this—or me . There’s no stopping this. This needs to be done. It’s the only way to move on. To heal.

An irritating symphony of scoffs and whines fill the air as she turns her head to the side, away from me.

“Oh no you don’t. Eyes up here. You look at your big brother when he’s talking to you.” I redirect her attention to me, this time prodding her chin with the tip of the knife. Her breath hitches, fearful that I’ll let the blade slip and that’s the only reason she obeys and cranks her neck back to face me.

With our gazes glued to one another, I lower the blade as I embark on a slow descent from the column of her throat to the swell of her breasts and continue the sadistic trek until the sharpened edge hovers her torso.

I keep it there, applying some more pressure. Not hard enough that it’ll cut her but enough that those pesky fucking clothes of hers—or what remains of them—stand no chance at remaining intact or on her body. I already did a number on her pants, shredding the fabric to make access to that cunt of hers easier .

“There we go,” I beam with pride as I tear off the remaining barrier separating me from naked skin.

I didn’t go through Hell and back to get her to come here again, to the only spot on this property that brought her peace—the fucking graveyard of all places—to waste our precious time in the grave our flesh will soon rot, to be clothed. Her bare flesh, bloodied and writhing beneath mine, is a sight I not only want, but deserve after everything she’s put me through.

Keeping the knife handle clutched in one palm, I skate my free hand to her breasts and cup one in my hand, kneading the perky, full flesh in my palm.

A moan slips her lips, finally accepting that I’m not letting her go. There’s no fighting this. No escaping one’s chosen fate. Might as well lay back, spread those legs wide, and enjoy the performance before the show comes to an abrupt and suffocating end.

I do her a favor and guide the snake off her legs, freeing her of its stronghold on her limbs. The audible relief she has as she sighs is laughable. I didn’t free her from it to ease her fears. I did it to make accessing that greedy sinkhole she passes for a cunt easier for me to dip into.

Her hips lift, bucking and humping at the air in need. Waiting for me to put her out of her misery and fill her with the last cock her warm cunt will ever have.

I know she wants this just as badly as I do. Yet her will hangs on like an impenetrable fortress, as soon as her mouth opens to speak. “Why are you doing this?”

A pointless question.

“Because I have to,” I deadpan. I tug at the edge of my mask near my jawline, wanting to pull it up onto my head, so I can clamp my teeth down on her erect nipple, but it won’t budge. The heat penetrating my entire body acts like a glue, adhering the mask to my skin with no hope of letting me go. The uneven and cracked plaster of my mask scratches my face becoming one with my skin. Transforming me into the role I was destined to play. Her Ferryman .

Fatum enim eligimus. A familiar voice whispers from within. Reminding me that my fate and hers has already been chosen.

“Fine,” she surmises. “Don’t bother, it won’t come off.”

I know. No thanks to you.

She navigates her hand through the dirt and latches onto my wrist. Guiding my knife-laden hand up to her throat.

With our connected grip, we fight for dominance with two differing goals. Hers is to have the knife pierce through her flesh, swift and steady and on her terms. While my goal is to grant her that desire when I see fit. She owes me. Therefore, all her breaths, even her last, are on my time. Not hers.

“Almost time,” I try to reassure her, but the added force we share on the handle, moving back and forth, causes the blade to nick her skin, drawing a thin line of red. Relief loosens her shoulders as she relaxes her hold on the knife handle, giving me full power over it and over her.

I drink her in. It’s impossible not to. Every inch of her is a canvas dying for my claim. No amount of resentment I harbor towards her could change that. There’s no denying her serpent-like charm. She’s as exquisite as she is diabolical. A curse with no remedy.

Knowing what’s coming next, accepting what has to be done, she parts her legs, spreading them wide. Laying in willing silence, with knees bent high, waiting for me to take back what’s mine.

Soil continues to fall, clouding the air around us, reminding me we’re running out of time.

I release a wad of spit onto one hand, wetting it enough that I can glide it on my shaft, lubricating it. My other hand, still with the knife in it, lifts so the blade hovers the column of her throat.

We exchange a heated look. One that says a thousand words without muttering a single syllable, and I lose all willpower. All. Fucking. Control.

I slam my cock into her, eliciting a screech from her that’s both inviting as it is damning. Thrust after thrust, the force I plunge in and out of her needy, tight cunt synchronizes with the pressure I increase on the blade. The tease on her flesh draws a smile on her face that I’ve never seen from her. It’s enough to make me come right now.

“Why now?” A ravenous groan vibrates against the knife hovering her airway. “Why after all this time?”

“Because you made me who I am.”

“A villain?” She pants as I continue to thrust into her, rough and attentive.

“No, little sister. The ending you deserve.”