Page 33

THIRTY-THREE

TRIP

T he blood won’t come off. No matter how hard I scrub, no matter how much I drag my nails across my skin, her blood clings to me like it’s part of me now.

Embedded.

Permanent.

It soaks into the cracks of the concrete where she bled and bled and bled, and I can still see it there in the back of my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see her lying there, fading.

Slipping away from me. Her skin pale, her body growing cold. Her blood on my hands.

It doesn’t matter that the paramedics had gotten to her in time. It doesn’t matter that she’s alive, that I held her while she whispered my name and begged me not to leave her.

None of it matters because he touched her. He almost took her from me. And for that, there’s no forgiveness.

No mercy.

I stand in the garage, the dim light casting long shadows across the weapons I’ve laid out with meticulous care. My gear is ready. I’ve been ready for this moment since the second I found her bleeding out on that fucking patio.

I’m not holding back anymore. Not this time.

The mask is first. It slides over my face like a second skin, molding to me, transforming me.

The world shifts as the weight of it settles over me, dragging me deeper into the darkness that has always been there, waiting.

The man Lydia loves is gone. This is something else. Something darker. Colder.

The vest came next, tight and heavy against my chest. I strapped the blades into place, one at my thigh, another across my back.

The gun is tucked into its holster, but I won’t need it. Guns are too quick. Too merciful. Tonight, Patrick isn’t getting mercy.

I slide the ropes into my pack. Zip ties. Blades. A syringe filled with adrenaline. I don’t plan on letting him pass out before I’m finished with him.

My fingers brush over the edge of the tattoo gun before tucking it into the pack as well. That’s for the final touch.

The last piece of the message I’m going to leave him with. A permanent reminder of what happens when you touch what’s mine.

The engine of the Challenger rumbles to life, the vibration settling deep into my bones as I pull out of the garage.

The world outside blurs, but I don’t see it. My focus is laser-sharp, locked on one thing. One destination.

I know where Patrick is hiding. He thinks he’s smart. Thinks he’s fucking untouchable.

But I’ve been watching.

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

The warehouse on the south side is dark and forgotten, a perfect place for a man like him to hide.

But there’s no hiding from me. Not tonight. I kill the engine a block away and step out, the night air cool against my skin beneath the gear.

The silence presses down on me, but it isn’t empty. It’s heavy. Anticipation thrums in my veins as I approach the building.

He’s inside.

I can feel him.

The door is locked, but that doesn’t matter. I won’t be knocking.

I plant the charge, step back, and detonate it. The explosion echoes through the night, metal screeching as the door blows inward, smoke and debris clouding the air. I grin as the chaos rains around me. I really enjoy blowing shit up.

I don’t wait for it to clear.

I move like a predator, silent and focused, slipping through the smoke like a shadow. My steps are measured, deliberate. Each one brings me closer to him.

I can hear Patrick inside. His breathing is too loud, his movements frantic as he stumbles through the dark, trying to find a place to hide.

But there’s no hiding from me.

I see him before he sees me.

He’s pacing near the center of the warehouse, his eyes wild and darting toward every sound. Sweat drips down his face, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“Trip…” His voice is weak.

I don’t answer.

Not yet.

I want him to feel it first. The anticipation. The dread. The certainty that he isn’t walking out of here alive.

He turns too late.

I’m on him before he even registers the shift in the air. My arm wraps around his throat, dragging him back against me as I drive my blade into his side.

Not deep.

Not enough to kill.

Not yet.

“Miss me, motherfucker?”

Patrick’s body jerks, a strangled sound escaping his throat as I slam him to the ground.

“You should have paid the team to help you… Because being alone here is fucking stupid.”

The air rushes from his lungs, but I don’t give him time to recover. I straddle him, pressing the blade against his throat just enough to feel his pulse jump.

“Trip, I–” He pauses, looking around for anything. I jerk his head back to the front. “I tried to hire them… They wouldn’t fucking do it when I told them you were the target, you fuckhead.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I grab his wrist, twisting it until he cries out.

“You hurt her,” I growl, my voice a deadly calm that echoes off the concrete walls. “And now…” I lean closer, my mask brushing against his ear. “I’m gonna hurt you.”

I don’t kill him fast.

I take my time.

His fingers are first.

Each one snapped like a twig. One by one.

His screams echo through the warehouse, but I don’t stop. I’m not even close to being done.

His ribs come next. My boot connects with his side again and again until I feel the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my foot.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” I murmur, wiping the blood off my gloves. “You didn’t care when she was bleeding out on the fucking ground.”

Patrick coughs, blood dribbling down his chin as he glares up at me through swollen eyes.

“F-fuck… you…”

A slow smile stretches across my face.

“Oh no, Patrick.”

“Not yet.”

The knife is back in my hand. Sharp. Hungry. I drag the tip down his chest, over the jagged scar where I marked him before.

“Remember this?” I murmur, tracing the word I’d tattooed into his flesh.

LIAR

Patrick’s eyes widen, panic bleeding into his features.

“You told her about the others,” I growl, the blade pressing harder against his skin.

“Made her think it was me.”

“Trip…” His voice is barely a whisper now.

“But it wasn’t me, was it?”

I lean closer, my breath hot against his face.

“It was you.”

I don’t give him time to respond.

The knife slides lower. My hand is steady as I drag the blade down–slow, deliberate, until I reach the one thing that matters most to him.

Patrick’s body goes rigid.

“No–no–no,”

I don’t stop. I slice. Deep. Slow. The sound that tears from his throat is pure agony. Music to my fucking ears. I don’t just cut it off nicely. Oh no, that would be a mercy. I drag the blade up and down his floppy member until he’s a ball of snot, tears, and unprecedented pain.

His cock is in my hand. Detached. Bloody. Useless.

“Guess you won’t be using this again,” I mutter, tossing it to the side like the worthless piece of flesh it is.

Patrick’s body convulses, his eyes rolling back as the pain threatens to drag him under.

Not yet. I’m not done.

I pull the syringe from my pocket. The adrenaline is clear. Potent. I stab it into his heart, watching as his body jerks violently, his eyes snapping open as the chemical shock drags him back from the edge.

“Can’t let you die yet,” I chuckle, brushing my fingers through his blood-soaked hair. “Not when I’m having so much fun.”

Patrick’s body is broken, but I’m far from finished. Not until I make him understand.

“Those women…” I growl, dragging my knife across his chest, carving deeper into his skin. “The ones you killed.”

Patrick’s body shakes, his breathing ragged.

“You blamed me.” My blade slices again.

“You made her doubt me.” Another cut. “You lied.”

His blood is everywhere now. The concrete beneath him is slick with it, soaking into the cracks like it’s trying to erase him from existence, accepting the sacrifice I’m offering.

I grab his face, forcing him to look at me.

“She knows now,” I growl, my voice low and filled with venom. “She knows it was you. I’ll fix the fucking damage you did, after she wakes up in the hospital.” His eyes go wide.

“Yeah, you didn’t kill her you dumb fuck, you just pissed me off.” Patrick’s lips tremble, his body barely holding on.

“And you’re never touching her again.” I press the blade to his throat.

“Say goodbye, Patrick.”

I don’t just kill him. I butcher him. The camera is still recording. The live stream has been going for the past fifteen minutes. Under a name only she will recognize. Private, only for her eyes.

A twisted love letter.

A message.

I toss the bloodied knife to the ground, my chest heaving as I stare down at what’s left of him.

Nothing. He’s nothing.

And Lydia is mine.

Forever.