Page 122 of Tricked By Jack

Chapter 38

The Bride

Nicklas’ basement feels like a vault beneath the earth, the kind of place where sounds go to die. Harsh fluorescents buzz overhead, casting no shadows, leaving nowhere to hide from the truth of what we’re about to do.

The concrete walls trap the scents of bleach and iron, the antiseptic smell failing to mask older stains that have seeped into the foundation.

Shelby sits before us, wrists and ankles bound to a metal chair bolted to the floor, her lips twisted in a superior sneer I can’t wait to wipe away. I feel Jack shift beside me, his patience stretched thin after days of waiting, or maybe he, like me, is buzzing with anticipation.

Jack’s hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, though we both know the answer. This isn’t a question of whether, only how.

“Absolutely.” I lean into his touch, drawing strength from the solid presence of him. “She took me apart. Now it’smyturn.”

“Fuck, you’re so sexy right now.” His mouth crashes over mine, all teeth and heat, a bruising claim that tastes of promised violence.

When he lets go of me, I’m panting and lightheaded. I take a moment to gather myself again. Damn, Jack’s kisses always leave me wanting more.

I step forward, my heels clickingagainst concrete, the sound sharp as a metronome counting down the minutes she has left.

“Happy Halloween, Shelby,” I say, savoring the way her body tenses. “Today you get both a trick and a treat.”

I don’t know if she even realizes what day it is after all this time in isolation. Time loses meaning in the dark. But I want her to know—want her to understand that while the world above celebrates with candy and costumes, she’ll be meeting a different kind of darkness.

Jack moves to stand beside a folding table where a laptop waits, screen black but ready. His fingers hover over the keyboard, green eyes fixed on me, waiting for my signal.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about what drives people,” I continue, circling Shelby like she’s a specimen pinned for study. “What made you do what you did? All that pain, all that rage. It was for love, wasn’t it? For John.”

At the name, she jerks against her restraints, something frantic and desperate in her muffled cries. I smile, reaching behind her head to loosen the gag.

“I want to hear you,” I explain, pulling the cloth free. “Every sound.”

“You bitch,” she spits, voice raw from disuse. “How dare you talk about him? He was the love of my life and you don’t know the fucking meaning.”

I hum softly. “Yes, so I’ve gathered. He was your ultimate love.” I circle her once. “But one question remains.” I circle her again before crouching in front of her. “Were you his one true love?”

Doubt flickers across her face, just for an instant, before hardening back to hate. “Of course I was.”

“Were you?” I gesture to Jack, who brings the laptop and table closer, setting it right in front of Shelby. “Because I think it’s time you saw the man you’ve been mourning. The man you killed your own brother for.”

Her eyes dart between my face and the screen, fear wrestling with defiance. “What trick is this?”

“No trick.” I lean close, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Only a treat. After all, when we lose someone, all we want isto see them again. So we’re about to make your wish come true.”

I nod to Jack, who presses play. The video is grainy security footage, but clear enough. John Simmons—alive, unharmed, and exactly one day before his death—in a hotel room with a woman who isn’t Shelby.

The date stamp in the corner doesn’t lie. Nor do the naked, writhing bodies, or the carnal sounds they make.

“That’s not…” Shelby’s voice breaks. “That’s not him.”

“It is.” Jack’s voice is low, certain. “And judging by his groans, he’s having a great time.”

Her face contorts, grief cracking through rage like lightning through storm clouds. The scream that tears from her throat isn’t human—it’s primal, wounded, the sound of something fundamental breaking apart.

Her body convulses against the restraints, every muscle straining as though trying to physically reject the truth before her eyes.

“No!” she shrieks, over and over, the word shredding into meaningless syllables as the video continues. John moans on screen, his hand around the woman’s throat as he thrusts deep into her pussy. “Turn it off! It’s a lie!”

But she knows it isn’t. I can see the knowledge bleeding into her, poisoning everything she thought she knew. Every moment of those weeks in captivity, every lash of the whip against my skin, every word spat in hatred—all of it based on an unrequited love.