Page 40 of Lupo

I squeeze harder.

His eyes bulge. His face turns purple. His struggles get weaker.

I don't let go.

I watch him die.

When he finally goes limp, I release him and he crumples to the ground. I straighten my shirt, check my watch like I have somewhere to be, and walk away.

Just walk away.

Like I didn't just murder a man who had children.

I come back to myself leaning against the fence post, bile rising in my throat.

That was me. That was what I did. Casually. Without remorse.

I'm a monster.

But the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream, is that I still don't feel remorse. Even now, knowing what I've done, I can't muster guilt for those men.

I don't even know who they were or what they did, but I know they deserved it. I feel that certainty in my bones.

Which means I'm exactly the kind of monster who thinks murder is justified.

I look back at the house. Isabella is at the kitchen window, washing dishes. Elena is probably playing nearby, safe and happy.

What would they think if they knew? If they could see inside my head, see the blood on my hands, see the bodies I've left behind?

They'd run. They should run.

But they need me.

The thought is selfish and true. With Draco out there, with men asking questions at the market, they need someone who can protect them. Someone willing to do what needs to be done.

Someone exactly like me.

I force myself back to work. Pick up the hammer with hands that remember killing. Drive the nail with precision that comes from practice.

But every swing brings more images. More fragments.

A knife pressed to a throat, blood spilling hot over my fingers.

A gun in my hand, the recoil, a man dropping.

My foot on someone's chest, holding them down while—

I stop. Breathe. Keep working.

This is who I am. This is what I was.

A killer. An enforcer. Someone feared.

By afternoon, I've finished the henhouse, but I feel like I'm coming apart. The memories are piling up, each one worse than the last. Not complete pictures, just flashes. Moments of violence. The weight of bodies. The sound of breaking bones. The copper taste of blood.

And underneath it all, a name that keeps surfacing, just out of reach. My name. My real name.

I'm working on repairing the garden gate when Isabella comes out with water and bread.