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DORIN

I spend the next few days watching over Lavinia, trying to get her to focus on me, eat, and drink.

But nothing helps.

She’s gone—dissociated or whatever the fuck it’s called.

When I hold her, she’ll give in.

Her muscles loosen and she lets her grief flow freely.

It seems like a good sign, but everything else is stagnant.

She won’t even squeeze my hand when I hold it or lean into me like she used to when I wrap her in my arms.

She doesn’t even try to beg me to take her life.

I manage to get her to drink from a straw, but when I try to feed her something more solid, she doesn’t respond.

I try to force her mouth open and shove the food inside, but she just sits there, not even chewing.

Her lack of response scares the shit out of me, and I curse Dax vehemently when I research feeding tubes and find out there’s no way for me to insert one without his medical expertise.

I’m not letting him near her for anything in the world.

I consider bringing in a doctor from somewhere else.

We have a few clients who are hot-shot surgeons.

Having one of them fly in and drive all the way out here would cost a fortune, but that’s not what’s stopping me.

It’s the realization that I need to give her what she’s been begging for all along.

Death.

It’s the only merciful thing to do.

And Lavinia deserves it.

I can give her what no one has ever given me.

A way out.

A release.

Peace.

I want her to have that, and this is the only way.

Even after I’ve decided, I drag it out for two more days.

Two more days of her suffering.

I hate myself for it, seeing how she’s losing weight, her skin is paling, and she loses the strength to even get her grief out.

On the fifth day, I carry her to the bathroom across the hall, where I sink into the hot water with her.

I start by washing her, as if cleaning her could remove her burdens and make her passing easier.

But she doesn’t need any help where she’s going.

She won’t need me where she’s going.

I swallow back a knot that’s suddenly swelling in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, holding her close and kissing her skin.

“For everything. Bringing you here. Letting all those horrible things happen.” I can’t even voice any of it.

“For not listening to you. But I’ll remedy that now. I’ll do what I should have done from the start. I’ll set you free, my sweet little songbird.”

It feels odd as I mentally prepare myself to end her.

Weird, twisty sensations stir inside me, and urgent thoughts keep banging to gain entrance to my consciousness.

Killing a girl always comes with a rush of power, but I don’t feel any of that today.

As much as the change bothers me, it also feels right.

Nothing has ever gone as expected with my little songbird, so why should it now?

Everything about this scenario is different from my usual kills.

I’ve never killed a girl out of mercy.

I’ve discarded them because they were useless, broken beyond repair, and unsellable, but never because it was what was best for them.

I’ve also never done it in a tub, naked and holding her close.

Usually, I’ll take them to the incinerator room, feeling the powerful heat of the fire radiating into the space, ready to eat the carcass, as I choke the girl until she passes out, then snap her neck.

I’ve also never killed someone I care for before.

I’ve never cared for anyone.

The thought sends an achy stab through my chest.

Grunting, I ignore it and turn my attention to the task at hand—the delicate creature in my arms.

“You won’t feel a thing,” I tell my sweet songbird—my beautiful Lavinia—as I tighten my grip to hold her close.

“I’ll shut off the blood to your brain.” I gently slide my hand up her chest, pausing at the edge of her throat.

“It will make you pass out.” I dip my head close to her ear.

“Then, before you come to, I’ll snap your neck.” I take a deep inhale, branding her scent into my senses.

“No pain—no more. I promise.”

There’s a drip on my hand.

A tear, I realize as her chest starts shaking and more tears fall.

Leaning closer, I kiss her cheek, tasting her salty tears that are now running in a steady stream.

I start humming, one of the songs she used to sing to me, as I trail my hand up higher.

I close it around her slender neck—the one I’ll be breaking in a minute.

Flexing my fingers, I feel for her arteries, then hold my hand still and slowly press.

A new lump forms at the base of my throat as I feel the strength drain from her body.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, pausing—holding her on the brink for one final moment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much you meant to me before it was too late,” I say, then press again.

Her hand comes up to grip my arm at her waist.

It’s a feeble squeeze, but that small gesture damn near breaks me.

It’s the first movement I’ve gotten from her since I came back to find her broken, hollowed-out, and voiceless.

My hands are suddenly sweaty, and a hazy, nauseous sensation creeps in.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Everything curdles inside me as Lavinia’s strength fades.

My heart pounds as her hand drops down to float in the water, and my airways narrow as she goes limp against me, unconscious.

I’ve done this so many times that I reflexively readjust my arms, preparing to deliver the needed force to snap her neck.

I place a final kiss on her cheek.

This is it.

“Goodbye, my sweet little songbird.”