Page 123 of Tricked By Jack

I move close again, my lips at her ear while she sobs, her eyes still fixed on the screen where her world is ending frame by frame. “This is the last thing you’ll ever see,” I whisper, the words soft as a lover’s promise. “The truth about the man you killed for.”

Her breath hitches, and she tries to turn her head, to look at me instead of the screen, but Jack is there suddenly, hands steady as a surgeon’s as he grasps her face.

“Eyes forward,” he commands, voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. Not even when he caged me did he use that tone. “Watch until the end.”

I step back, letting him work. The spoon in his hand gleams dully under the dim light, obscene in its simplicity. Shelby thrashes, her shrieks scraping the walls, but the restraints hold her fast. She knows what’s coming.

The first puncture makes her buck against the chair, a sickening pop as pressure gives way, a suctioned rip dragging wet against the air.

Blood sluices down her face in thick sheets, crimson tears streaking over her teeth as she screams, the sound shredding into a high, animal pitch that makes the walls vibrate.

He is detached, deliberate, the spoon moving with terrible efficiency until the first orb comes free, glistening in the light. Then the second.

Her cries collapse into ragged sobs, vibrating so hard it feels like my ribs are shaking with them. Bile claws at the back of my throat, but I force myself still, my eyes locked on hers as blood leaks into the hollows where sight used to be. This isn’t cruelty—it’s justice. Balance.

When it’s done, when her sockets gape empty and her body sags against the chair, Jack finally steps back. Blood coats his hands, but his eyes are steady as they meet mine—merciless and unwavering.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his breath ragged with exertion.

“Yes,” I nod, punctuating the words while I pick up the gun from the table. “Together.”

I move to stand before her, this woman who was once my friend, who became my tormentor, who is now nothing but a broken vessel for pain.

Jack steps behind me, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine on the handle. Both our index fingers curl around the trigger. His breath warms my neck as we raise the gun together.

Shelby thrashes, blind and broken, a ragged sound clawing from her throat. I lean close enough for her to hear me over her own sobs. “This is a treat you don’t fucking deserve,” I hiss. “But we’re running out of time.”

Together, we pull the trigger.

Her head snaps back, chair rattling against its bolts, and then she’s still. Blood trickles from the perfect circle at her temple, spreading in quiet lines down her face. The silence afterwards is deafening.

Jack’s heartbeat against my back is both steady and strong as he lowers the gun, taking it completely and engaging the safety before tossing it aside. Then he turns me in his arms. His lips find mine hard, unrelenting. The kiss is deep, claiming, sealing us inthe violence we chose together.

“It’s done,” he says simply.

I nod, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “It’s done.”

Behind us, Shelby’s body cools in its metal chair, eyes gone, heart stilled. The video plays on, unnoticed now, a loop of betrayal for an audience that can no longer see. In the harsh fluorescent light, Jack and I stand entwined, monsters made from the ruins of what others tried to break.

And I’ve never felt more alive.

Chapter 39

The Bride

The Sanctuary pulses with Halloween madness, smoke curling through flame-lit walkways like beckoning fingers. Tonight marks its final hours—the last gasps of October breathing across the island before tomorrow strips it back to abandoned military structures and wind-swept paths.

But now, it thrives on the bodies twisted in grotesque performances, their skin painted in symbols I recognize from ancient grimoires. Masked revelers watch from shadows, medallions gleaming at their throats.

Jack’s arm settles around my waist, his fingers splayed possessively across my hip as we move through crowds that part instinctively, sensing something deadly and satisfied about us.

No one here knows what we did hours ago. No one can see the blood we’ve washed from our skin, the death we’ve carved together. But they feel it—this power radiating between us—and they give us space to breathe it in.

“Where do you want to go first?” Jack asks, his voice low against my ear.

I scan the grounds, taking in the various spectacles. A contortionist bends her body into impossible shapes on a raised platform, each twist revealing new patterns painted across her skin.

Further along, a man in a plague doctor mask performs mock surgeries on willing victims, extracting ribbons of red silk.