Page 43

The photos flutter between her fingers like dying butterflies, and I watch each micro-expression cross Rhea’s face—confusion melting into horror, horror crystallizing into rage.

Her hands shake with a tremor that starts small and grows, rippling outward until her entire body vibrates with the force of her realization.

Beautiful. Even in her fury, she’s fucking beautiful.

I should feel something about her discovery. Panic, maybe. Concern about what she’ll do with this knowledge. But all I feel is a strange sense of relief, like exhaling after holding my breath for months. No more pretending. No more careful omissions.

She knows now.

She knows what I’m capable of, what I did for her. What I did because of her.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles blanching white against the leather. The engine idles beneath us, a steady purr that vibrates through the soles of my feet, up my legs, settling somewhere deep in my chest where satisfaction blooms warm and dark.

“You sick fuck!” Her voice cracks like a whip in the confined space of the car, but I don’t flinch. If anything, the sound sends a thrill down my spine, electric and addictive. “You fucking psychopath!”

The photos scatter across my lap as she hurls them at me, their glossy surfaces catching the harsh fluorescent light from the abandoned gas station. I glance down at them—my handiwork, my documentation, my proof. The timestamp on the first photo glows accusingly: 11:43 PM.

Halloween night. Eleven forty-three PM.

The bass from the party below thrums through the floorboards as I climb the stairs, each step deliberate and silent.

I’ve been tracking them all evening—watching Jack pour drink after drink down my dove’s throat, watching his hands grow bolder, watching her resistance crumble under the assault of alcohol and his practiced manipulation.

Mine. She’s mine, and he’s touching her, claiming her, defiling her with his filthy fucking hands.

The hallway is dimmer up here, lit only by a few scattered fixtures that cast long shadows between the doors. Most are closed, hiding whatever debauchery unfolds behind them, but Jack’s door—his door stands slightly ajar.

I approach on silent feet, years of hockey training making my movements fluid, predatory. Through the crack, I can see them—Rhea stumbling slightly as Jack guides her toward the bed, his grip on her arm possessive in a way that makes something savage twist in my gut.

“I should go,” she’s saying, her words slightly slurred but her intent clear. “I don’t... I don’t feel right about this.”

Good girl. Even drunk, even confused, she knows this isn’t what she wants.

But Jack isn’t listening. His hands are already moving, already taking liberties, and when she tries to pull away, his grip tightens.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, pushing her down onto the mattress. “Don’t be such a tease. You came up here with me.”

The bottle is within her reach—a half-empty fifth of tequila sitting on the nightstand. When Jack’s hand finds the hem of her skirt, when he starts pushing it up despite her protests, she grabs it.

The glass connects with his skull in a wet crack that sends liquid and blood flying in equal measure. Jack staggers back, more surprised than hurt, his hand rising to touch the cut on his forehead.

“You fucking bitch!” he snarls, and I can see the moment his shock transforms into rage. “You fucking—”

He lunges for her, and she shoves him with both hands, all her strength behind the motion. He stumbles backward, off-balance, his heel catching on the edge of the area rug.

The impact of his head against the bureau echoes like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

For a moment, nobody moves. Rhea stands frozen, her chest heaving, staring down at Jack’s sprawled form. Blood begins to pool beneath his head, dark and viscous against the hardwood floor.

She thinks she’s killed him. I can see it in the way her face crumples, in the small, broken sound that escapes her throat. She thinks she’s a murderer.

But Jack’s chest is rising and falling. Shallow, labored breaths that fog slightly in the cool air of the room. He’s alive.

Rhea doesn’t see it. She’s already moving, already climbing toward the window in a panic-driven escape. The glass scrapes against the frame as she forces it open, and I hear her breath hitch with suppressed sobs.

I push the door open slowly, watching as she escapes. Now I need to finish what she started.

She’s gone.

Jack groans, a low sound of pain and confusion. His eyes flutter open, unfocused but aware. One hand moves to his head, comes away bloody, and his face contorts with fury.

He glances up at me, and looks over my shoulder at Noah and Zane.

“Fuck!” he says, and Noah shuts the door behind him.

Noah and I glance at each other, nodding. Time to finish the job.

“Here’s the thing, Jack.” I interrupt him, my voice conversational, almost friendly. “You keep fucking with things that aren’t yours.”

Jack blinks, confusion clouding his features. “What?”

He tries to sit up, but he’s unsuccessful. I grab his face and before I smash his head in, I mutter, “She belongs to me, Jack. And you put your hands on her.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by fear. “Thatcher, what—”

The stone connects with his skull before he can finish the sentence. The sound is different this time—heavier, more final. Like a melon hitting concrete.

Jack drops limp. I grab the phone from his pocket and check the screen. No calls made. Good.

But he’s still breathing. Shallow, ragged gasps that bubble slightly with blood.

I glance at Noah, knowing I have to do it again. He nods once.

I bring up and down again, putting my full weight behind it. The crack of bone is audible this time, a sound that reverberates through my bones and settles in the darkest parts of my soul.

Jack’s breathing stops.

I stand over him for a moment, watching for any sign of movement, any indication that he might survive this. Nothing. Just the spreading pool of blood and the absolute stillness of death.

Noah hands me the Instax camera. He took a few before I killed him, and now he wants me to take the rest. I always document Reaper business, and this.

.. this definitely qualifies. The flash illuminates the scene in stark detail as I take the first photo: 11:47 PM.

Jack’s chest barely moving, life clinging by the thinnest thread.

I check my watch, then settle back against the wall to wait. Five minutes. Five minutes to ensure there’s no chance of survival, no possibility of testimony.

At 11:52, I take the second photograph. Jack’s chest is perfectly still, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Confirmation of death.

The next hour is spent in careful arrangement. I move Jack’s body slightly, adjusting the angle to make it appear that Rhea’s initial push caused the fatal injury. I place the broken bottle where it would have landed naturally, scatter a few drops of Jack’s blood to muddy the forensics.

Every detail matters. Every piece of evidence must tell the story I want told—that a girl defended herself against an attacker and accidentally struck a killing blow.

By the time I’m finished, the scene is perfect. A tragedy, but an understandable one. Self-defense, not murder.

I stare at Jack, relieved that he didn’t do more to her. I tell myself I did this to protect her. That I did it because Jack touched what belonged to me. Because he dared to lay hands on my dove.

Back in the present, Rhea’s face is a canvas of horror and betrayal, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. She’s yanking at the door handle with desperate violence, the mechanism clicking uselessly against the engaged locks.

“Let me out,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “Let me out right fucking now.”

I reach down slowly, deliberately, gathering the scattered photos from my lap and the center console. Each one slides between my fingers like silk, the glossy surfaces still warm from the heat of her rage.

“I protected you,” I say, my voice calm, measured. Each word carefully chosen and delivered with calmness.

“You murdered him!” Her accusation hangs in the air between us, sharp and clean.

“I eliminated a threat.” The correction comes easily, automatically. Because that’s what Jack was—a threat to what’s mine, a poison that needed to be removed before it could spread.

“You let me think I was a killer .”

I slide the photos back into their envelope, taking my time with each one, letting her watch as I handle the evidence of my crime with casual indifference.

“Yeah, and it was hot. Watching you think so poorly of yourself… or highly.”

The envelope feels substantial in my hands, weighted with more than just paper and ink. It’s proof of my devotion, my willingness to cross any line to keep her safe. To keep her mine.

“The question is, Dove,” I say, turning to face her fully, drinking in every detail of her anguish. The way her chest heaves with each panicked breath. The pulse hammering visibly in her throat. The delicate flush that spreads across her cheeks when she’s emotional.

Beautiful. Always so fucking beautiful.

“What are you going to do about it now?”

Her mouth opens and closes like she’s drowning, struggling to find words in the wreckage of everything she thought she knew. The silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and dread.

Because we both know the answer. She can rage and scream and hate me all she wants, but she’s trapped now more completely than ever. Not by blackmail this time, but by truth.

She knows what I’m capable of. She knows what I’ll do for her.

She knows what I’ll do to anyone who tries to take her away from me.

And somewhere beneath the horror and betrayal, I can see the moment when understanding finally dawns—when she realizes that her anger, her knowledge, her moral outrage... none of it matters.

Because I own her now, completely and irrevocably. Not through lies or manipulation or convenient omissions.

Through truth.

The purest, most honest truth of all: I am exactly the monster she always suspected I was.

And monsters don’t let go of their treasures.

Not ever.