Page 122 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

He stepped closer, eyes glassy and faraway. “Those people… the ones I helped? They were already broken. Tainted. I gave them peace.Purpose.I made it right. And for once,shesaw me. My mother saw the man I could be. Saw that I wasworthy.” He locked his gaze on Aaron. “Thenyoucame along. All soft eyes and leash-trained smiles. And I couldn’t believe it. You?TheCain Howell. A descendant of the same rotten blood I came from.”

Jonathon’s lip curled. “But instead of becoming what you were born to be, you curled up in the lap of the man who put your parents in chains. You lethimtame you. Praise you. Let himfuckyou.”

He took another step forward, heat pulsing off him like a fever.

“Then Blackwell?” His voice pitched higher, more frayed, and he waved a hand at the unconscious man passedout on the chair. “He touched you and I watched it all. Youran. Fell apart. I hoped it would crack your pretty mask. And I waited.Waitedfor you to show me who you really were.” Jonathon’s mouth twisted, hateful. Eyes bright, wild, consumed. “But you never did. Because you’re not a survivor. You’re not strong. You’re awhorein obedience drag.”

Aaron’s breath caught. Rage, revulsion, and panic colliding in his chest. “You sick fuck—” No clinical diagnoses now. Raw truth.

Jonathon lunged.

Aaron barely got his arms up before Jonathon crashed into him, a force of pure, snarling fury. The dart gun hit the floor with a hollowclatteras Jonathon drove him back, slamming him hard against the edge of the desk. Pain cracked through Aaron’s spine, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Then iron-hard fingers locked around his throat.

Aaron bucked, thrashed, kicked wildly, panic surging through him like fire. He drove his knee into Jonathon’s groin, but the bulk of the Santa suit absorbed the blow, thick with padding. Jonathon didn’t flinch.

Hesnarled.

And tightened his grip.

Callused fingers pressed into Aaron’s windpipe with surgical cruelty, thumbs grinding down until stars burst behind his eyes.

“You don’t deserve him!” Jonathon spat, his face twisted, flecks of saliva catching in his beard. “You don’tdeserveto beloved!”

Aaron’s lungs burned. His pulse thundered in his ears. Vision blurring at the edges. And he shoved hard. Wild. Instinctive. But Jonathon was stronger. Not in size, but in sheer, fanatical purpose. And Aaron saw him slip his handinto his coat pocket to retrieve the braided paracord of his lanyard.

“It’ll be over in a minute,” Jonathon said. “It has to be twelve. Twelve days. Twelve disciples. Twelve offerings. That’s how redemptionworks.”

Aaron’s panic detonated.

He twisted, kicked, fought like a man drowning, because that’s exactly what this was. Drowning on dry land. He thrashed his legs, connecting once with Jonathon’s knee. Enough to loosen that grip. Then he rolled off the table, and scrambled, sprinting blindly down the kennel corridor. Breath ragged. Blood in his throat. He heard the footsteps behind him. Heavy, fast, relentless.

Santa’s boots scrunching forward.

Then—whip—

A cord looped over Aaron’s head. Tightened. The ID card dropped to the floor, detached, as Jonathon yanked the wire around Aaron’s throat pulling him back mid-stride, hard enough to lift his feet off the ground then fall forward on all fours, knees slamming onto the concrete. Pain exploded up his arms and legs but Jonathon was over him, straddling him, breath rancid, hands locked on the garrotte as if reining in a beast.

Aaron clawed at the cord. His fingers fumbled, slipped. It dug in deeper. Each gasp narrower than the last. His world shrank to heat and pressure and the blinding knowledge thatthis was it.

Among barking dogs, he was going to die.

Then he glanced sideways. To a kennel door. The lock. Choking, eyes bulging, he fumbled in his pocket for his own ID card. His vision darkened. Tunnelled. As if he were falling into a pit he couldn’t climb out of. But he got the card on the reader andclick.

The door opened.

But Jonathon reeled him up again, hard, and Aaron’s back slammed into Jonathon’s padded chest, the cord cinching so tight he couldn’t make a sound anymore. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Only the high-pitched shriek inside his skull and he clawed uselessly at his neck. His legs gave out. His body sagged.

Fuck. Fuck, this is it.

He was dying. Really dying. Choked out in a kennel, like one of the shelter’s forgotten dogs. This was how it would end. And it was so fitting. Right. Because it was true.

Aaronwasunrehomeable.

Jonathon’s breath ghosted his ear as if delivering a twisted prayer. “You were never meant to survive this world, Cain. Neither was I. But I made peace with it. You should too.”

Aaron’s eyes rolled back. The edges of the world pulsed black. There was no air. No time. Only the cruel bite of wire, the tremble of his limbs, the pounding silence in his skull.