Page 69 of Ly to Me (Devils of Alliston Springs #1)

Carver

The Retribution

W hen I got home last night, Lyra was wearing a black lacy set, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.

She shouted ‘surprise,’ then gave me the packet.

Two minutes later, the champagne bottle was shattered on the floor and my wife’s cunt was wrapped around my cock as I fucked her against the wall.

After we cooked dinner together, I wiped the plates from the table and laid her down on it, making her scream my name with every orgasm.

I had no idea life could be this good. That I could have everything I’d ever wanted.

The facility was ours.

The house was ours.

We were each other’s.

Everything was perfect.

She fell asleep in my arms as natural as ever, and after some time of taking it all in—her, our room, the distress of shattered things beyond the walls from making love to her—I drifted off into yet another peaceful night of sleep.

Only peace was subjective. Peace was what you made it. What you believed it to be.

That became all the more clear as I woke up to her phone vibrating from somewhere on the floor.

I answered the call, and by the time I pressed it to my ear, I’d missed half of what the person had said. I pulled the phone away—the number wasn’t saved, but also wasn’t unknown. Just ten random digits, but the first set was the same area code as the rest of Alliston Springs.

“Wait, wait. I didn’t hear a word you said. Can you repeat that?”

The feminine voice halted. “May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

“Lyra’s husband.”

A slight pause, papers flipping in the background. “Oh, that’s right. She did mention that, sorry.”

A sly grin broke free, until the woman on the other end asked, “Is your wife around? We’d like to discuss some things with her.”

“You have yet to tell me who this is.”

“So sorry. This is Marsha with Alliston Springs Hospice Center.”

Hospice?

“Anything you wanna say to her can be said to me.”

She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure—”

“I’m her husband,” I repeated. “You said yourself she let you know that in whatever papers you’re holding, which means I have a right to know what you’re calling about.”

More flipping of papers, then a sigh. “Alright. He’s starting to come to. The treatment seems to be working.”

My fingers tightened on the phone as I left and stepped out onto the porch. “I’m going to need you to repeat that one more time. Try adding names.”

“Chet Walker, your wife’s father, is—”

“He’s not her father.”

“Noted.” Another crinkling sound. “Chet woke up last night, coming out of the coma. He’s still sleeping most of the day, but we started the treatment like we’d discussed, and—”

“What treatment?” I snapped.

“The treatment we discussed with your wife.”

The phone made a crackling sound as my grip on it tightened. “Which you will discuss with her husband. Now.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir. You’re listed for visitations, being that you are Lyra’s husband, but not extensive medical updates.”

“Where is this again?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Alliston Springs Hospice Center, sir. I—”

“Got it. Thanks. I’ll let her know.”

I hung up, then searched how far away that was on my phone.

Then I called the one person who could help me.

“Meet me at the bar in fifteen,” I rushed out.

“Jesus, Carver, I’m not even—”

“Fifteen minutes,” I repeated, cutting Grant off. “Park in the back. Don’t be late.” I hung up and went back inside. Setting Lyra’s phone to silent, I put it on her nightstand, then got dressed quietly and kissed her forehead. I sent out a text from my phone before I got into my truck and left.

Minutes later, I was standing in the back lot of my empty bar.

Grant rubbed his eyes as he leaned against the tailgate of his truck.

“Time to wake up.”

“Fuck that. You ruined the best dream,” Grant murmured.

“The man who assaulted my wife is still alive.”

My friend straightened. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s about to be dead.” I held up my phone with the map displayed. “Need you to take me here.”

“This isn’t Jamie, is it?”

I shook my head. “Give me your phone. I’ll leave it in my truck.” The last thing I needed was a slip-up. Phones tracked people, tracked call logs and messages—

No. Nothing was getting in the way of this.

“Plan on leavin’ a mess?” he asked.

“If that’s what is needed.”

He slid his phone into my hand, then put both our phones inside my glove box. When I came back to get into his truck, he asked, “Anyone else make it on your hit list for her?”

I slid into the passenger seat. “Not yet.”

Grant snorted. “That wasn’t very convincing.” I glared at him. “Okay, fine. Won’t ask. But if this guy is in hospice, then isn’t he close to death anyway?”

“The call I got this morning let me know that might not be the case anymore.”

He started up the truck and pulled out from my bar’s lot. “Should’ve killed him while he was closer to it.”

“I didn’t know where he—”

Grant put his hand up. “Don’t tell me shit. It’s better if I don’t know. Just worry about not leaving any evidence behind. I’ve got gloves I use at the shop in my glovebox.”

I pulled out a few and pocketed them without a word.

Grant rapped his fingers on the wheel. “Is there a plan for if you get caught?”

“My lawyer knows what to do if that happens.” Which was pretty straight-forward.

Everything I had also had Lyra’s name on it.

Everything was hers. But I’d be damned if I left her like that, which was exactly why I’d called Grant.

He’d fucked up before and would know how to avoid it again if it came down to that.

“You’re going to make sure that it doesn't.”

He snorted. “I’ll do my best if you get her friend to come back to town.”

I slid my eyes to him, keeping my head toward the road. “Deal.”

“Good.” He beamed. “As soon as you can.”

“Unfinished business?”

“You could say that.”

I gave a single nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m helping you take someone out. Least you could do is throw in her number, too.”

“Done. But if you piss off my wife, I’ll castrate you.”

“Her friend likes me. I’m charming.” He turned into the hospice’s parking lot and parked on the side of the building.

“Good. Use it on whoever stands in my way.” Come hell or high water, Chet was dying by my hands today.

Grant smirked. “What’s all this charm for if it can’t keep a distraction up for longer than ten minutes?”

“Shouldn’t be that long.”

With only one nurse at the front desk when we walked in, Grant made sure all her focus was on him.

She took our ID’s and hardly checked either of them while Grant made small talk, making her blush even as we asked what room Chet was in.

As Grant lifted his sleeve, showing the extent of his artwork, I slipped away down the hall, following the numbers along the doors.

212

212

2-1-fucking—

There it is.

I slipped the gloves on and clicked the door shut behind me as I scanned the room for cameras, then propped a chair beneath the handle.

And then I saw him.

Chet Walker, in the flesh.

As I stood at the foot of his bed, my teeth ground together, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Monitor’s beeped, the breathing tube rammed down his throat making slight wooshes, giving him life he didn’t deserve.

All the effort to keep an abusive, offensive man alive, yet where was the effort on behalf of this town when he got every opportunity to do so much wrong to my little Ly?

Nonexistent.

No one else cared when she skipped town after graduation. No one else questioned why. There’d been no case, no police searches. Fucking nothing but me and my truck on the roads every day and night that I got.

I pulled the knife from my pocket and used the tip to move his blanket aside. His wrinkly eyes fluttered, and although this had to be an in-and-out ordeal, I wasn’t aiming for subtlety when it came to him feeling my presence.

No.

I wanted him to hurt like he hurt my precious wife.

I wasn’t a doctor, but I was pretty sure not being in a coma anymore meant he could do just that.

Checking the chart beside my thigh, I flipped through and found the diagnosis—brain cancer.

The chart also listed several hemorrhages and tumors, a handful of other things that stemmed from the diagnosis that should have taken him out in his state, and the list of meds and sedatives he was currently on.

On another page was my wife’s name, her number, and the date of her last visit.

The day she ran back to that shithole.

“So this is why she came back,” I murmured, chuckling into the void. “She came back because you were dyin’ and she finally felt like she could live here and be free again. And now you’re tryin’ to take that all away.”

I let go of the clipboard and dragged my knife up the length of his exposed leg. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to make him aware, his lids fluttering rapidly in response.

“You thought you could touch her.” I shifted the bottom of his garment with the blade, revealing his shriveled dick. “You thought you could have her,” I said through gritted teeth as blinding rage started to build.

I rolled my head from shoulder to shoulder, then placed the tip of my blade near his balls.

I leaned in closer, hovering over his face.

The breathing tube whooshed, expanding his chest. “You don’t even deserve the death I’m givin’ you.

You should rot in a casket under the ground, alive, until all the air in your lungs turns toxic, filling your tiny fucking box slowly with your last breaths until you suffocate.

” I dragged the blade up toward the tube.

“If you were out there, beyond these walls, I’d make it happen.

Then, just as you’d lose consciousness, I’d pull you back up and repeat the process, over and over. ”

I gripped the tube, his eyes shifting back and forth behind his lids like he knew who’d come for him, though I’d only seen him once. So, I reminded him.

“I’m Carver motherfucking Roland. I’m Lyra’s husband . The one who punched you all those years ago. The one who should’ve ended you that day—” The sharp, sudden pang of realizing why his jeans were undone that day brought bile to my throat. I forced it down. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”

I pushed the blade into the tube and sliced into it, and didn’t stop until more air went through the cut than to his lungs. When his chest didn’t expand with the next whoosh, I threw the blanket back over him and whispered in his ear, “If you survive this, you know what future awaits you.”

As his monitor started to beep, I removed the chair from the door and strode out, pocketing the gloves before the cameras in the hall could see. Then I cupped my hands and hollered for help, playing the victim right as a longer beep sounded from his room.