Page 55

I couldn't wipe the grin off my face as I walked up Daphne's porch steps, fingers absently twisting the ring on my left hand. I almost told Daphne no when she called and asked me to come over. But her voice was dejected over the phone, and Daphne was usually always happy.

The tray of her favorite pastries balanced awkwardly in one arm as I reached her door, shifting weight from one foot to the other. This morning V watched me from across the kitchen, impossibly still, his attention fixed on my hands as I'd prepared these. Even when he wasn't physically present, the weight of his expectation pressed against my skin.

I knocked on the door, waiting for Daphne's call to come in.

But there was nothing.

The silence raised goosebumps along my arms despite the warm spring air. I knocked louder, knuckles stinging against the solid wood. She knew I was coming over—she was the one who called me.

I stepped back, scanning the windows for movement. Nothing but the lights turned off in her house. That was weird; she always had the lights on. She'd never done this before.

My stomach twisted. Something was wrong.

The door handle turned beneath my palm. No sign of her in the room as I walked to the dining room table, footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet. I set the tray down. The container clicked against the wood. "D-Daphne?"

"I've been waiting, Oakley."

Daphne now stood by the front door, steel clutched in her white-knuckled grip, a demented twist of her lips turning her once-beautiful features into something unrecognizable and inhuman. The knife dripped steadily onto the hardwood. A ragged gash opened her arm from wrist to elbow, the wound yawning obscenely to reveal glistening muscle beneath separated flesh, yet she showed no awareness of her own mutilation. Her dark hair hung in greasy clumps, sticky strands plastered to her cheeks, stained a deep, crusted rust as if she'd dragged herself through decay. Something rotten beneath her expensive perfume made my stomach lurch. But those flat obsidian discs like doll's eyes paralyzed me—reflecting nothing—empty sockets in a porcelain mask.

Every muscle seized. Nothing moved but her knife. Limbs seized, muscles rigid, skin prickling with icy dread. She stalked toward me. She rushed suddenly, and I scattered backward, hip slamming into an end table, sending a crystal vase exploding across the floor. The sound didn't register through the thundering in my ears as the edge sliced through air toward my face. I jerked sideways but not fast enough—it caught my thigh, warmth soaking hot down my leg, jeans instantly drenched, clinging to the wound like a second skin.

Knees slammed against the floorboards, hands skidding across the rough wood. Fingernails snagged, snapping sharply as splinters bit beneath them. Still, I crawled forward, skin scraping away, leaving streaks in my wake.

Each breath seared. Chest convulsed, ribs aching under the pressure. Bile flooded my tongue as my throat constricted, strangling any sound that might have saved me.

"Where do you think you're going?" Daphne's voice cut through the air, sharp as the metal in her hand. "I'm not done with you."

Her hand clamped around my ankle, nails puncturing skin, dragging me back toward her with impossible strength. I kicked wildly, heel connecting with something solid. The impact vibrated up my leg but didn't loosen her grip. Fingernails splintered as I clawed desperately at the floor, each ragged inhale burning my lungs. Bones ground painfully under her grip, a cry building that had nowhere to go as my airway seized.

She flipped me suddenly, with brutal force that knocked the wind from my chest. A stranger loomed over me, nothing recognizable in those features. Teeth bared in a wicked grin, flecks of spittle landing on my cheeks as she leaned closer, the tip of her blade hovering inches from my eye.

"Pathetic," she spat, saliva mingling on my skin. Her laugh was broken glass ripping through the air, a sound so hollow my bowels loosened. She was going to kill me here, on this floor, and V would find nothing but scraps of what I had been.

My body jerked without rhythm, limbs moving on instinct while my mind splintered. Images flashed of V finding my body. Of him coming too late. V's eyes would be empty forever if I didn't make it back. That metal on my finger, those promises extinguished forever. I pressed it to my lips, tasting the surface, a desperate message to V through the connection. The thought sent a fresh wave through me, giving just enough strength to pull myself further away, leaving a smeared trail in my wake.

She was behind me. Her presence weighed like a physical burden, the air thick with copper and something else—something rotten beneath her expensive perfume, as if her soul was decaying inside her beautiful shell. She loomed overhead, her deranged expression alarming. Teeth too sharp, too white against the stain smeared across her chin like she'd been feasting on something—or someone—before I arrived.

"He thinks he deserves a normal life," she hissed, her shadow falling across me like a shroud.

Who was “he?

Even my jaw convulsed, limbs twitching beyond control. Cold sweat soaked through clothes despite the heat rushing through my veins. This couldn't be the woman who praised my baking. Not this monster with dead eyes and stained hands.

The door exploded inward, fragments shot across the room like bullets, one grazing my cheek deep enough to send warmth trickling down my jaw. Through the dust and debris, a hulking man emerged, silhouetted against the outside light. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, heaving heavily.

Chet staggered toward me, each step leaving wet prints on the hardwood. His shirt clung to his torso, saturated and dripping, the fabric torn to reveal a gaping wound at his side. Each movement caused fresh rivulets to spill over his belt, pooling at his feet. The scent hit me—iron-rich and meaty—yet his expression showed no acknowledgment of the damage. His stare burned through the horror clouding my vision, hardening into something that promised violence for anyone who stood between us.

He scanned my body with clinical efficiency before softening when our eyes met, the steel in them melting. "You good, sweetheart?"

Teeth chattered against each other, a mindless nod was my only response.

"Chet." Daphne's voice changed, sweetened with a familiarity that made my blood turn to ice. "You weren't supposed to be here tonight."

Chet's attention snapped to her. Hatred radiated off him, but not surprise. "Finally showing how much of a bitch you really are?"

Daphne's brows dipped. The knife wavered. "What are you talking about?"

Chet laughed without warmth. "I've always known who you are."

The color drained from her face as understanding dawned. "You... all this time?"

"I owed someone a favor." His lips twisted into a cruel curve.

Her expression twisted with fury. "Five years," she whispered, her voice cracked like something inside her tore. "And you felt nothing?"

"Wasn't hard." Chet shrugged, edging me backward. "You're painfully boring."

"How could you fucking do this to me?" Daphne's voice dropped to a whisper, tears glistening in her eyes. With a guttural cry, she lunged at Chet, aiming straight for his heart. He barely sidestepped, his reflexes slowed by blood loss and fatigue. The knife sliced through the air where his chest had been a split-second before.

"Always so fucking dramatic," Chet growled, his fist connecting with her jaw. The impact knocked her sideways, her body crashing into an end table. Fragile picture frames shattered across the floor, glass mixing with the already spilled shards. She scrambled to her feet, lips pulled back in a snarl that bared teeth stained with someone else's fluids.

"I gave you everything!" she spat, circling him now, the silver edge weaving hypnotic patterns through the air between them.

"We were in an open relationship for a reason." His focus never left her, his body shifting to maintain position between her and me. "Had to shower and puke after every time I fucked you."

Her lip curled. She shook with something sharp enough to cut. "It was all a fucking game to you."

Her words didn't even make Chet flinch. His expression remained cold, calculating beneath the contempt. He lunged at her, his towering form moving with unexpected speed, catching her arm at the wrist. Their bodies slammed together, locked in a violent struggle that shook the walls. The steel hovered between them, trembling with the conflicting forces of their strength as he tried to force it away from his throat while she fought to drive it home. She was eerily strong, her slender body containing power that seemed impossible, her arm barely giving an inch despite Chet's superior size and position.

"Should've killed you in your sleep years ago," he snarled, spittle flying between them as veins bulged in his neck from the strain. "But he wouldn't like his favorite whore killed."

With a vicious twist that cracked audibly, she broke his grip and slashed in a wild arc that opened his forearm from wrist to elbow. Spray arced between them, spattering the cream-colored walls and ceiling in a grotesque pattern. Chet bellowed but didn't retreat, instead grabbing a heavy brass lamp from the side table and swinging it with bone-crushing force.

The lamp caught her shoulder with a sickening crunch. Daphne howled, momentarily staggered, but recovered with frightening speed. She feigned left, then drove toward his abdomen. He twisted, but not fast enough—the point sank deep into his side.

"I always knew you'd be the one to kill me," Chet laughed through gritted teeth, bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth. He staggered backward, one hand pressed to the fresh wound, the other groping blindly for something to brace against.

Daphne followed. "Give my regards to hell."

As she moved in for the kill, Chet's hand shot out—fast, final. His fingers grabbed the wrought iron poker leaning against the fireplace. He lunged for it, his body twisting away from her as the blade sliced through the air where his neck had been. His shoulders slammed against the brick hearth, jars of decorative seashells shattering across the floor. With a grunt, he grabbed the poker and rolled, narrowly avoiding Daphne's boot as it stomped where his face had been a second earlier.

He stepped left, then swung the poker toward her legs, catching her ankle, sending her stumbling into the glass coffee table. It shattered beneath her weight, shards exploding outward.

Daphne rolled through the shards, glass crunching beneath her as she sprang back to her feet. Streaks ran down her face from a fresh cut above her eye, but she moved like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. The knife flashed in her hand as she lunged again, this time catching Chet's shoulder, opening a new gash that immediately began pouring.

"Fuck!" he bellowed, staggering back, poker swinging wildly to keep her at bay. His boot caught on the edge of the rug, throwing him off balance for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

Daphne seized the advantage, driving forward with inhuman speed. Her weapon arced toward his chest. At the last possible moment, Chet twisted, using the momentum of his fall to swing the poker upward with all his remaining strength.

The poker connected with her temple, the force of it lifting her off her feet. Her body went rigid mid-strike, the knife clattering to the hardwood as she crashed into the mantle, sending framed photos raining down around her.

She collapsed in a heap of broken glass, her limbs twitching unnaturally. The weapon skittered across the floor, coming to rest at my feet. I kicked it away, unable to touch the thing that had already done so much damage.

Chet didn't waste the moment. Despite fresh fluid pouring from at least three separate wounds, he lurched across the room, kicking the blade under a heavy cabinet where she couldn't easily retrieve it. His boots left footprints across the hardwood as he staggered back toward me, one hand pressed against his side, the other still gripping the poker like a lifeline.

"Move, sweetheart," he gasped, grabbing my arm with clammy fingers. We stumbled backward together, my feet tangling in the remnants of shattered glass and splintered wood. Behind us, Daphne was already stirring, her hand reaching blindly for a jagged piece of the coffee table.

Chet pushed me behind him, the poker held out defensively. Thick rivulets tracked down his arm, dripping from his elbow to form a growing puddle at his feet. Air sawed in and out of his lungs in short, ragged bursts, his looming silhouette swaying slightly.

"I always finish what I start," she whispered.

Despite the devastating blow, Chet somehow remained on his knees. He found me, a silent message passing between us. Then, with strength that shouldn't have been possible, he lunged forward and grabbed Daphne's ankle. She stumbled, caught off guard.

As she fell, her head struck the corner of the heavy oak sideboard with a sickening crack. Her body went limp instantly, glass shard clattering from her fingers as she collapsed in a motionless heap.

Chet dragged himself toward me, each inch claiming a fresh toll. "Stay behind me," he muttered, his eyes never leaving Daphne's motionless body.

Daphne's fingers twitched, her body beginning to stir despite the devastating blow to her head. Chet didn't hesitate. With a surge of desperate strength, he brought the poker down again. The metal connected with her temple with a dull thud that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards beneath us. Her eyes rolled back, consciousness fleeing instantly as her body slackened. She collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, limbs splaying at awkward angles as she hit the hardwood with a heavy, meaty sound. A fresh trickle snaked from her hairline down her cheek, pooling beneath her ear. Only then did Chet turn his attention fully to me.

He squatted down in front of me, blocking my view of Daphne. His presence was solid, immovable despite his catastrophic injuries. Each breath whistled slightly through the hole in his side, yet his eyes remained clear, focused on me with an intensity that felt overwhelming.

He checked over his shoulder, his body swaying slightly with the effort. A fresh stream slipped down his side, disappearing into his waistband.

"It's not your business, Oak," he rasped, froth forming at the corner of his mouth, turning his teeth pink. "But someone needs to know."

My throat squeezed shut around a sob. Copper and salt saturated the air around us. My hands hovered uselessly near his wounds, trembling so violently I couldn't have helped him even if I'd known how. "W-We have to go?—"

"Five years ago, Darrell cashed in on the marker I owed him." He cut me off. "Sent me to Diamond Ridge to watch that bitch behind me." His hand gripped my arm, leaving tacky prints on my skin. "My debt was paid months in. Could've walked away. Gone back to my kids."

My stomach lurched at the contact, his fluids cooling against my flesh. I wanted to pull away but couldn't bring myself to break that desperate connection. His grip was the only thing keeping either of us anchored to reality.

A wet cough shook him, spatter from his wounded side landing between us. When he straightened, his face was pale from exertion, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. Despite his injuries, there was no mistaking his strength—beaten and bloodied, but nowhere near broken.

"But then I saw why he wanted me to watch Daphne." His voice dropped to something barely human, shredded with urgency. "That boy with nothing behind his stare. The one we found in the rain that night."

My pulse thundered in my ears. Something in his words scraped against a truth I couldn't yet see but somehow recognized bone-deep. My vision tunneled until Chet's face filled it completely, his lips forming words that pierced directly into my chest.

His hands fumbled against my skin, then clenched hard, desperate for something solid.

"Fifteen years old. Soaked to the bone. Wearing nothing but a torn T-shirt so big it hung to his knees. His hands—" Chet's voice caught, a sound like tearing fabric in his chest. "He was covered in bruises shaped like fingerprints from head to toe."

The back of my throat burned, nausea curling sharp and sudden as the image seared itself into my mind. Tears spilled hot down my cheeks, cutting paths through what wasn't mine.

Each word drained more color from his face, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, as if this confession was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

"He stood there in the rain, waiting for his mother who wasn't coming. Thought we were there to hurt him too. But he followed us. He didn't have anything besides his bat and the shirt on his back." Chet's expression darkened. Something icy settled in my chest as pieces started clicking into a terrible place.

His hand found my face, leaving sticky trails down my cheek as he forced me to look at him.

"Nobody ever loved that boy, Oakley. Not once." His eyes burned into mine, boring through bone and tissue to sear his dying truth directly into my soul. "You're the first goddamn person he believed might save him."

My body went rigid with understanding, muscles locking so tight I thought my bones might snap. My fingers clutched at Chet's jacket, holding on because if I let go I might shatter completely on this blood soaked floor.

"I stayed because I saw myself in that boy," Chet's voice cracked, stripped raw with emotion he'd buried for years. "My old man used to beat me until I couldn't stand. One night, I fought back. I was twelve when I put him in the ground." His eyes glistened, not with hurt from his wounds but with something older, deeper. "Nobody came for me. I had to save myself, and it broke something in me that never healed right."

His voice broke completely on the final words. "No child should have to kill to stop their own hurt. No child should stand in the rain waiting to die because they think they deserve it. No child should grow up thinking they're a monster when they were just trying to survive."

The boy who'd been broken so thoroughly had stopped being human long before he found me. The boy who'd become my V. Fifteen years old, abandoned in the rain, violence born from survival. Everything suddenly made terrible sense—his obsession, his emptiness, his desperate need to possess. To never be left again.

He gripped my arm tighter, desperate to make me understand. "When I saw that kid standing in the rain with that bat and those dead eyes, I knew. I fucking knew what he'd done and why he had to do it." A single tear tracked through what covered his face—perhaps the first he'd shed in decades. "Every time I looked at him, I saw the kid I couldn't save. The one who was gonna grow up to be me. But he didn't." He grabbed me hard enough to leave bruises. "Because of you. You keep him from becoming me."

My vision blurred, edges darkening as my mind struggled to process what my heart already knew. Salt and copper flooded my tongue as my body rocked slightly with the force of revelations too enormous to contain. Everything about V suddenly shifted—his obsession with permanence, his fear of abandonment. The way he watched me as if I might vanish. The way he claimed me because he'd never been claimed. The way he held me like I was sacred because no one had ever held him at all. "Make sure he knows he was worth saving, sweetheart."

His hand trembled violently as he reached inside his soaked jacket, fingers slipping on something hidden within. With the last of his strength, he extracted an antique pocket watch. The silver case worn smooth from years of handling, dented on one edge, tarnished where sweat had eaten into the metal. His fingers left smears across its face as he pressed it into my palm, curling my fingers around the metal with a gentleness impossible from hands that had just taken lives.

"Give this to my boy, Rurik," he whispered, his voice breaking on the name. "Tell him I'm sorry I couldn't make it back to the farm." With shaking fingers, he pried open the case, revealing a faded photograph protected behind scratched glass—two children and a younger Chet in flannel and jeans smiling back at me. "Take care of him for us, Oakley."

Sobs wracked my body as his lungs struggled, each inhale a wet, rattling effort. The corner of his mouth twisted upward, incongruously gentle amid the carnage surrounding us. "Don't be sad, sweetheart." His voice carried such peace—the kind V might never know. “I’m finally free.”

Chet's face softened, as if understanding my confusion. His mouth opened, perhaps to clarify, to give me the missing piece that would make sense of his cryptic confession.

"Do me a favor," he said, bubbles forming between his teeth as he forced what passed for a grin. Eyes glazing, as if seeing something beautiful—something he'd never reach. The wink that followed was so jarringly normal amid this carnage that tears sprang to my eyes, blurring the edges of his face. "Tell V I said hey broth?—"

A knife tore through his throat from behind, punching through cartilage and muscle with a wet, sickening sound before erupting through his neck. The spray hit my face with such force it felt like being slapped—hot, viscous fluid spattering across my skin, into my open mouth, my eyes. The knife jutted from the ruin of his throat, the metal slick, gleaming with what was left of him. Behind him, Daphne twisted the knife deeper, a sickening grin spreading slowly as she savored every twitch of his dying body. Chet's eyes bulged in his suddenly pale face, not from hurt but from the terrible understanding that he'd failed. His body convulsed violently against mine, spine arching in protest of its own destruction.

His life filled my mouth—scalding copper flooding my tongue, forcing its way down my throat before I could spit it out. I gagged on the taste of his death. My jaw stretched in a cry that couldn't escape my seized lungs. The world tilted and spun as Chet's heartbeat pumped directly onto me in thick, rhythmic gushes that matched the thunder in my ears. Each pulse weakened against my skin, the space between them growing longer. His mouth worked silently, lips forming shapes for sounds drowned in his own fluids. Behind him, Daphne's fingers twisted the blade, grinding metal against bone. Chet's gaze found mine one last time, widening not with fear, but with something worse.

Vision tunneled, darkening at the edges until his face filled it completely, those eyes dimming like stars being swallowed by night. The roaring in my ears drowned everything else, a deafening rush of heat and horror. Something deep inside me cracked—a fault line opening in my soul, collapsing everything I thought I knew about the world. Muscles locked in rigid witness to the slaughter.

Chet's massive frame buckled, knees giving way as he collapsed forward. Still, even in death, he fell toward me—his final act as a shield, his body a barricade between me and the monster behind him. A wet, gurgling noise as warmth bubbled past his lips, spattering my cheeks, my forehead, my lips.

The scream tore from my throat, ripping through vocal cords strained beyond capacity. The sound of something breaking permanently inside me—innocence, hope, the belief that good people could survive in this world. Chest convulsed with sobs that had no air behind them, lungs refusing to expand under the crushing weight of witnessing death this intimate. Tears scorched tracks down my face, cutting through the mask of another man's life that coated my skin. The world beyond this room ceased to exist, collapsing to this single moment—this death, this floor, this blood soaking into my clothes, my hair, my soul.

A shadow fell across us both, blocking out the dying afternoon sun.

Daphne stood above me, knife gripped loosely at her side, that empty, doll-like gaze staring down at me as she crooned softly, "Now it's your turn."