She isn’t fragile. Never was, no matter how many times I tried to cage her under the illusion of my protection. She’s not glass to be hidden away on some top shelf, gathering dust. She’s chaos incarnate, storm and wildfire, a force you don’t smother—you set it free and pray you’re strong enough to stand in its path. Every strike she lands is a sermon, every movement a proclamation that she’ll never again be a victim. And heaven help me, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
I don’t just want her. I crave the place beside her. To be drenched in the same blood, to fight in the same war, to let our darkness blend until no one can tell where hers ends and mine begins. She’s not just my Pixie. She’s my equal. My mirror in the madness. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to claim that place, right here, right now, at her side—where we both belong, as predators, as survivors, as the retribution they never saw coming.
Then she says it—low and mocking, her tone curling with wicked humor that doesn’t belong in a place like this but somehow makes the air even sharper, more dangerous. A “hotdog octopus.” The words hang there, absurd against the backdrop of blood and agony, so out of place they almost don’t register. The realization hits twisted and brilliant, and the image slams into me like a punch to the gut.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can choke it down, raw and unrestrained, ripped straight from my chest. It echoes off the walls, booming too loud in the suffocating silence of the room. A sound that doesn’t belong, but I can’t help it—I fucking lose it. The violence, the audacity, the insane brilliance of her little joke—it’s too much. It’s her. It’s so perfectly her.
Her head snaps up, those wide, bright eyes locking on mine. Startled, not surprised. Like she knew I’d come, just didn’t expect me to interrupt. For a beat, we just stare at each other, the silence stretching, the air heavy with blood and unspoken things. Her eyes are still wild, still sharp, and I can’t stop the thought that slams through me, hot and primal: I want to fuck her right here. In this room. In this bastard’s blood.
The thought shouldn’t stick, but it does, burning in my chest, coiling low in my gut. I wonder if she’d let me. If she’d bare her teeth and match me move for move, even in something this dark, this filthy. Then her expression hardens, the gleam in her gaze bordering on madness as she stares me down. Not in fear. Or hesitation. It’s a dare.
And that’s when I know. Yeah. She would.
Chapter Seven
Berkley
I press deeper into the shadows, forcing myself to stay still even though every nerve in my body is screaming for me to move. My thighs ache from crouching for so long, but I don’t shift an inch, not even when the floor beneath me creaks with the settling of the house. Hours of listening to his smug, entitled tone dripping through the walls have worn me down to raw nerves. Each word is a blade dragging over my skin, but I force myself to endure it, to let it sharpen me into something merciless.
His voice carries, arrogant and self-satisfied, and though I can’t hear Bryce’s end of the call, it doesn’t matter. There’s enough in Trent’s responses to paint the picture. As always, it circles back to her. Kimber. That name alone tightens my stomach into a knot, a sick twist of rage and fear I can barely contain. He’s talking about her like she’s a possession, like he’s already counted her as part of his winnings, and bile rises in my throat.
Bryce had promised him guardianship, dangling Emerson’s little sister like bait, and Trent took it hook, line, and sinker. But now I hear the shift. I hear the bite of frustration in his voice as Bryce tells him something he doesn’t want to hear. Papers. Served. Those words slither through the walls and hit my ears, and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud.
Because I know exactly what those papers are.
They’re not permission. Not a gift. They’re a death sentence for Trent’s twisted little fantasy. Legal custody stripped from that shell of a mother and sick excuse for a father, handed over to Emerson, where Kimber belongs. Safe. Loved. Out of reach.
The satisfaction that surges through me is sharp and bitter, a dark joy that feels almost wrong but steadies me all the same. For once, something has gone right. For once, a piece of this nightmare has shifted in our favor. Kimber will never be his. Not now. Not ever.
The thought of him stewing in his frustration, of him realizing the prize he assumed was already in his hands has been ripped away. That steadies me more than anything else could. My rage abates to something colder, sharper, because this isn’t just about vengeance anymore. This is justice. And tonight, I’m the one delivering it.
His voice fades at last, the conversation with Bryce ending in a string of curses and frustrated mutters that bleed through the walls, proof of just how badly he wanted Kimber and how badly he’s just been denied. The sound of his pacing grates on me—heavy footfalls dragging over the carpet, drawers opening and shutting, the faint clink of glass as he pours himself another drink.
I flatten myself against the wall, forcing my breath shallow, steady, the way Jay drilled into me years ago. My eyes slip closed, and I count the minutes—one, two, three—every number grinding against my nerves like sandpaper. The itch in my fingers is unbearable. They twitch around the handle of my blade, aching tomove, to silence him now, to carve the smug smirk I’ve imagined a thousand times off his face. But no. Not yet.
Patience. Precision. This isn’t about giving in to the chaos gnawing at my bones. This is about control. He doesn’t get the mercy of a quick death in his bed. He doesn’t get to slip away without knowing why it’s happening, without looking into my eyes and realizing exactly who’s come for him.
Finally, the floorboards creak differently—lighter, slower. He’s settling. The faint rustle of sheets follows, then the groan of the mattress taking his weight. My heart steadies, a hunter’s rhythm syncing to the moment of truth. I need him asleep, deep enough to stay under when the needle hits, but not so far gone that dragging him from bed will be impossible. I want him slumped, easy to move, pliant as I tie him down.
Because when I wake him, when I rip him back into consciousness, it won’t be gentle. He’ll wake up to me and the truth I’ve brought with me; the truth he’s spent his whole life running from. He’ll wake bound, helpless, forced to face the weight of every sin he’s ever committed, every crime he thought he buried. And then—only then—will I peel back the layers of his soul, strip him bare, and make him face the monster he really is.
The house is still now. Too still. A silence that feels alive, crawling across the skin, whispering for me to break it. My knife rests warm and ready in my grip, the moonlight slipping through the blinds and tracing silver fire across its edge. It’s already seen too much blood, but it’s still hungry. I swear I can feel it humming against my palm, begging me to put it to work.
When I reach his room, my pulse doesn’t twitch. It’s steady, deliberate, like it’s synced with the rhythm of vengeance pounding in my veins. My hand doesn’t tremble when I jab the needle into his thigh—precise, deep, cruelly efficient. The sedative surges through his bloodstream instantly, a concoction I perfected weeks ago, crafted with this exact moment in mind. His body jerks, eyes snapping open and unfocused. Confusion clouds them, panic trying to take root, but it’s already too late. His mouth opens, fumbling for words, but nothing comes. Just a strangled gasp. He sees me—half-formed, dreamlike, blurry around the edges—but the recognition that something’s wrong, terribly wrong, flickers across his face before the darkness drags him under.
I don’t give him time to fight. My grip is merciless as I seize him, muscles straining as I drag his deadweight across the floor. His skin, clammy and bare, scrapes over the boards with a sound that grates against the silence. Every inch I haul him feels like stripping him bare, dismantling the pedestal he built for himself. Here, he’s not the polished second-in-command. Not Bryce’s right hand. Not the man who thought he could have Kimber like some trophy. No, here he’s nothing but flesh—weak, defenseless, stripped of the armor of suits and swagger he hides behind.
I drop him into a chair with a satisfying thud, rope biting into his wrists and ankles as I cinch him down, tighter and tighter until circulation is a luxury he won’t have for long. His head lolls forward, chin brushing his chest, his breaths shallow and even from the sedative, but he’s not unconscious. Not fully. I made sure of that. He’s floating in the limbo between awareness and oblivion, wherefear festers most potent, where his body will betray him, but his mind will still be forced to witness.
Stepping back, I study him. Boxers, ropes, head bowed—it’s almost ceremonial, the way he looks, stripped bare before judgment. For once, he’s exactly where he belongs. My fingers curl around the hilt of my blade, the steel gleaming faintly in the dark, catching the faint spill of moonlight like a whispered promise.
For the first time tonight, a smile breaks across my face. Cold. Sharp. Hungry. His reckoning has finally arrived.
It takes a full thirty minutes for the drugs to bleed out of his system, thirty minutes of me watching him twitch and stir, his muscles jerking against the ropes like a fish on a hook. When his head finally jerks upright, his bleary eyes lock onto mine—and what greets him is a smile sharp enough to cut glass. I tilt my head, tapping the flat of my knife against my thigh in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sound like a ticking clock counting down his time.
“Hello, Trent,” I murmur, voice low and sweet, the kind of tone that would’ve passed for flirtation anywhere else. Here, it’s poison.
His mouth works before his brain fully catches up, his voice cracking through the haze of drugs, raw and venomous. “What the fuck do you want, bitch?”