Page 12

Chapter Eleven

Byron

A fter we showered, Ren of course left me naked, saying something about how creating in your most vulnerable state makes it more magical. Personal.

Truthfully, I don’t give a shit, but the words linger anyway, unwanted and intrusive, crawling into the back of my mind.

But if I want to survive long enough to put him down, then I needed to play his game. I needed to sink into the role so deeply that even I started to believe it. I needed him to believe the dream I was selling. That’s all it was. A dream. Not a confession. Not a truth. Just another lie I had to tell to survive. So why does it feel more real every time I say it? All I’ve known is defiance, resilience—it’s like second skin to me, woven into my bones. There’s no bowing down. There’s only fight.

Standing in front of the window, I try to focus on the trees, on the way they dance in the wind twisting, bending, but never breaking. Focus on anything but the intrusive thoughts clawing their way in, anything but the memory of whatever happened in the shower. My father must be turning in his grave to know he was right all along. That thought alone makes my stomach twist, a sick satisfaction at knowing he’d choke on his own certainty.

I was sick. Not because I was gay.

It was because of him.

The man who ripped off the mask and forced me into the light.

The man I will destroy.

My gratitude will be the knife in his back, the very thing that will unmake him.

The knife that puts him out of his misery. Or maybe mine .

After a few minutes of pacing around the room, each step only feeding the restless energy clawing beneath my skin, frustration begins to boil to the surface just as Ren enters the room, smug as ever and naked with a black blindfold in hand. Of course, he’s enjoying this. Of course, he’s making a show of it.

“Ready for your first lesson?” It wasn’t a question, just another command, another moment of control he expects me to hand over. So I don’t answer, and despite the urge that I have to beat the shit out of him, to wipe that smug expression off his face, I’m too weak to overpower him in my current state. Or maybe that’s a lie I tell myself. Maybe it’s easier to pretend I have no choice than to admit something darker.

No, Byron . I dig my nails into my palm, grounding myself.

The truth is, I’m sure Ren isn’t working alone; his very presence is proof of that. He was injured and almost dead. He should be dead. So whoever helped him could be out there, and Gabriela could be in harm’s way. I can’t afford to make a mistake. The only way to win this game is with calculated movements and patience. No matter how much it burns inside me, no matter how much my skin crawls in his presence, I will endure.

I’ll endure it all for her... for the only person I can’t ruin, for the one piece of my life that still belongs to me.

So I turn around, allowing him to blindfold me. The fabric brushes over my skin, a soft contrast to the weight of what’s happening. Holding my hand, he walks me out of the room. His grip is firm but easy, like he expects me to follow. Like he knows I will.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the studio.”

My stomach drops at the nonchalance in his voice, and I know what my first lesson will be. The realization settles over me like ice, slow and numbing.

“For what?”

I ask even though I know the answer. I don’t need to hear it. I knew the moment he walked in here, the moment he brought up lessons. Ren is a killer, after all, a psychopath with a need to create .

“Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?”

He squeezes my hand, a warning disguised as a touch, “Byron. I told you we can create together. I have the perfect idea, and I need you.”

“Need me?”

“Yes. You’re the muse... to the art and everything in between.”

I laugh at that, but not a small chuckle—no, one that booms off the walls. Too loud, too sharp. A sound that doesn’t belong in this moment. Tears sting my eyes, and I’m glad that he can’t see the emotions behind the blindfold. Glad he can’t see how much his words burrow under my skin.

Unlike Ren, I have emotions, and as complicated as they are, I wouldn’t be me without them. Wouldn’t be the same person who loves, who protects, who still clings to something human inside me.

That’s where we are different.

And I wasn’t a killer. Not yet.

A fighter, yes. But a killer? Maybe. If you push me. If you force it on me.

But killer or not, I needed to become whatever I needed to for Gabriela’s sake, even if it meant becoming something I’d never recognize again.

Even if I have to destroy myself in the process.

We don’t walk far, which means his studio is inside the cabin. The smell of iron and urine hangs in the air, sickening and intoxicating. Each step forward only makes the stench thicker, coating my throat, clinging to my skin like something I’ll never be able to wash off. My mind drifts to Theresita lying lifeless on the ground as he beat her over and over until her head was nothing but a bloody pulp. The sound still echoes somewhere in my skull, a sickening, wet crunch that refuses to fade.

“You see, Byron, in order to create you need to learn two things—patience and determination.” His voice is light, amused, like he’s teaching a child how to paint, not how to carve people into his twisted idea of art. I can hear him push something and then his hand wraps around mine. Too soft, too careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“Patience is needed to visualize the recreation, to bring your vision into fruition, and determination is needed to see it through.” He chuckles as he slaps my arm. The contact is jarring, too casual, like he doesn’t see the horror sitting in my throat.

“Sit,” he says as he helps me to the ground. The ground is sticky. The smell of blood clings in the air and now to my skin. It seeps into me, into every pore, like it’s making a home inside me. I don’t have to remove the blindfold to know I’m sitting in blood right now, but I don’t react. I can’t.

This is all a test, and he can’t break me. I repeat it in my head, but the words feel thinner every time.

“Now create, use all that pent-up anger.” His hands massage my shoulders as he leans in closer, taking a nibble from my ear, his breath too warm, too steady, like this is intimate. Like this is normal.

“Show me what you can do, Byron. Show me the dark.”

He pulls away, then within moments, he opens my hand. His touch is slow, deliberate while tracing the lines of my palm like he’s reading something in them. A map. A prophecy. Then a cold, thin object meets my hand. A scalpel. No mistaking it, no denying it, and no escaping what he’s about to make me do.

My hands quiver as they close around it. Tight, then loose, then tight again, like my body is unsure of what to do. I could end it all, and I consider it. One clean slice, one moment of courage, and this could all be over.

“A rose is so fragile when the thorns aren’t on the stem to protect it. So easy to pluck.”

And my stomach drops. My mind drifts far away as my hands feel for the warmth, fingers ghosting over something too soft, too real. I find it. Skin, trembling. Jasmine and iron choke me, twisting in my lungs, making me want to puke.

With shaky hands, I make the first cut because it’s better her than my sister. Because I don’t have a choice. Because Ren already decided for me .

I’m sorry. I think it over and over, but the words never reach my lips. My hand moves over and over, cutting and tracing. A sick rhythm. A dance. Thankful that at least I can’t hear anything but low, feeble grunts and the rush of blood in my ears.

“Amazing,” Ren coos. His hand moves down my arm as he guides it. Like I need help, like I’m not already doing exactly what he wanted.

“You’re gonna love it.”

I’m not, and we both know it.

But I comply because this is what he wants. Because this is what survival looks like now.

I don’t know how long I carve up the person before me. Time doesn’t exist here, only the weight of the blade and the pull of flesh beneath it. All I know is the scalpel feels heavy. My hands are sweaty and sticky from the blood.

“End it. End her misery.”

Ren removes the scalpel from my hand and helps wrap my fingers around a delicate throat. Too easy. Too practiced. Like he’s done this a thousand times before.

I take in a deep breath, but it stutters in my throat. My fingers tremble against the delicate skin, hovering—just for a second—like I can still choose. Like I still have control.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t force myself to end it. I wasn’t a killer... I’m not. I’m not. I can’t be.

“What’s holding you back, Byron?”

Ren’s arms wrap around me, his chin resting on my shoulder. A cage. A whisper of something worse.

“End it. End the pain. The shame. End it all.”

My hands wrap tighter. A slow squeeze. A test. A moment of hesitation before something inside me cracks.

And I hear the faintest sound. A whimper. A last, useless fight.

Despite all that was done to her, she tries to fight, but there’s no use. There’s no mercy here. My hands grip her neck tighter and tighter.

I can hear the way Ren’s breathing picks up.

“That’s it, my Thorn, show me the dark.”

And I do. Because I already lost .

Ren moves from behind me, and I hear him frantically grabbing stuff, enthusiasm in every step. Like a child on Christmas morning. Like an artist finishing a masterpiece.

“Ahhh... Byron, you did it. Magnificent. Even better than I could have expected,” he coos behind me as a salty tear rolls down my nose and into my mouth. I squeeze long past the point of her being gone. Her pulse, once weak, is now nothing, but my hands refuse to let go.

Not until Ren is behind me. Not until he speaks.

“How did it feel to squeeze the light shielding you from the darkness?”

No.

NO. NO. NO. NO.

My blood rushes through my heart, almost stopping as a sob wrecks through me, recognizing the meaning behind the words. Something inside me tears. Not a slow rip, but a violent, gutting tear that leaves nothing intact. I heave, falling to my hands, bile choking me. My stomach revolts, my body shaking so hard it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams.

“NO. NOOO.”

The room spins, and everything is still black. Still blind. Still trapped. I can’t hear what he says, not even when he removes the blindfold and the world comes into view. Nothing registers. Nothing makes sense.

All I can focus on are the brown waves. The shape of her. The blood on my hands.

“Beautiful,” is all he says before I lunge at him, desperation making my movements reckless. Pain blinding me, consuming me.

Ren only laughs, clapping every time he dodges me. Like this is a game. Like my grief is something to be amused by.

“Focus, B,” he taunts, standing there like I’m some fucking portrait. Like I’m something new and fascinating.

“It’s not Gabriela,” he whispers, the words slow and deliberate, pulling me back just enough to make me look. To make me face the truth. Ren helps me focus on the dead woman in front of me, removing the mask so I can see her face.

And my knees buckle, causing me to fall.

Because I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

I thought I could control something. I thought I could win.

I couldn’t save my sister.

Because I can’t even save myself. The world tilts sideways, and I hit the ground too hard, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I thought I was playing his game. That I could outthink him, outmaneuver him. But I never had a chance. Not when the board was already set, and I was just another fucking piece.