Slowly, I straighten, my gaze moving to the ripped apart flesh of his hands—the same hands that taught me how to wield a knife, how to shoot a gun. The ones that saved me years of torment from an evil even I can’t comprehend.
My stomach heaves again, and I glance away, nostrils flaring as I try and shove down the tidal wave of memories threatening to come to the surface. But it’s too late, the surge of grief rises up and hits me like a hurricane, my mind not able to connect the mangled corpse in front of me with the man who taught me everything I know.
The man who defended me against my nightmares.
I walk closer still, my feet stumbling over the ground, hands shaky as I reach the tree. My shoe slips in a puddle, the liquid splashing onto the hem of my pants. I freeze, staring down at the pool of blood; the life force of the only man on this earth who cared enough to take me in. The burn in my middle flares, scratching up my throat and pouring from my eyes. Tears track down my face and drip off my chin, the gaping hole in my chest cracking and shaking until my insides feel like they’ll rip in half from the quake.
Bile burns the back of my throat from the smell of his insides, but I ignore the stench, my fingers reaching up and gripping the nail embedded into his left hand. It’s slippery, caked with blood that’s starting to dry, and as I tense my arm and pull, the sick pop of metal releasing from flesh is enough to make even the strongest of stomachs churn.
I stare at the nail in my palm, feeling as though it’s being hammered through me, until something dark and heavy breaks through the cracks, slithering up my middle and wrapping around my neck like a noose.
And as I force myself to finish his other limbs, his body slumping down the tree and dropping on the ground, I realize that even the most fractured of hearts have further to break.
Because mine was just decimated to ash.
They didn’t just kill him.
They gutted him and strung him up for the animals to feed.
But I’m worse than any of the wild that lives in these woods, and I’ll hunt down everyone involved like prey, bathing in their blood and dancing to their screams until they repent for their sins.
My teeth grind so hard my jaw pops, my vision going blurry as a deep ache settles heavy in my chest.
I could have prevented this.
But I was with…
Wendy.
My head looks to the sky, my mind shattering into a million pieces as I wonder if somehow she was in on this plan. If she knew that by distracting me, her father could sneak in and once again take away the only thing that matters.
His little shadow.
Words from George the baker flow through my head, only this time, I see it from a different angle. My head is clear, no longer clouded with the lust of a woman who has the same DNA as the man responsible for so much of my pain.
“It was a woman. Said there was a new boss in town.”
Shock rushes through me like an electrical current, clashing with the simmer of my rage until they combust into an explosion of heat, wrath singeing through my veins and bursting from my pores.
Acid teases the back of my throat.
I had assumed it was Tina, Peter’s assistant. But Wendy was there that day. She was there. I blow out a deep breath.
My gloved hand runs over my mouth, the leather rough against my dry lips. “They won’t get away with it.” My voice catches. “I will make them suffer for every moment of pain you endured.”
My thumb brushes over the inscription on the lighter, still held tightly in my palm.
Straight on ‘til morning.
With a deep breath, I flick it open, the clink of the lid and spark of the flame the only sound, other than the silent screams clawing at my soul.
“Rest easy, friend.”
Pain splinters through my stomach as I toss the lighter onto fallen leaves, watching as they catch fire and spread, Ru’s body slowly being engulfed in the flames.
25
Wendy
There’s a single, sad cupcake in the center of my kitchen island, with gloppy white icing and sprinkles that look out of place; so colorful in a gray and empty house. It’s been three days since Jon has gone, leaving me entirely alone, and quite frankly, depressed.
I’ve always spent my time focused on family, not willing to let our brittle roots break after the death of my mother.
But now I don’t really see the point.
“Happy birthday to me.” I sigh, blowing out the flame.
Glancing at my phone, my chest pinches tight. It’s almost seven in the evening, and other than a quick birthday text from Angie, no one has called all day.
Not my father.
Not Jon.
Not James.
Although, in James’s defense, I’ve never told him when my birthday was. But he’s been MIA since Monday, when he helped me take Jon to Rockford Prep.
I took the day off from The Vanilla Bean, but now I’m regretting the decision, the hollow ring of loneliness echoing through the high ceilings and marble floors of my house.
Suddenly, my phone rings, and anticipation lights up my insides. But when I look at the ID and see it’s my dad, disappointment casts a shadow like a storm cloud.
I was wanting it to be James.
And that revelation in itself sends a shock wave through me, because somewhere along the line, in these past few weeks, my dad has slipped off his pedestal, the ache of missing him muted and dulled.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Little Shadow, Happy birthday.”
My stomach twists. “Thank you. Wish you were here to celebrate.”
“Me too.”
My stomach drops, and I feel stupid once again for hoping that maybe he was calling to say he was on his way.
“Listen,” he continues. “I’m sending out some new security for the house tomorrow.”
My nose scrunches. “What? Why?”
My father has always had security for himself, but we’ve always kept our private home private.
“I’ve had some idiots trying to blackmail me, and I need to make sure you’re safe. That the house is safe.”
I chew my lip. Blackmail? “What? No, Dad… I… I don’t need a freaking bodyguard. That’s ridiculous,” I laugh. “I’ll be fine.”
“This is not up for discussion, Wendy.” His voice is stern, and it cuts through me, making my lungs cramp in my chest. He speaks as though I’m a child, unable to care for myself. As if I’m not intelligent enough to handle the truth of whatever’s going on.
Blackmail. Give me a break.
“Dad, I’m not a kid anymore, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”
He chuckles. “Wendy, you can’t help. You just need to listen and do as I say.”
Anger swims through my veins and my jaw tenses. Maybe a few weeks ago I would have just listened, but after being with James—after being treated as a woman whose voice is heard and whose opinions are valid—crawling back into the role my father expects me to play feels like steel bars clamping down on my soul.
And I won’t do it.
But fighting with my father is as good as talking in circles, so I stay silent on the line, thinking about how I can handle things once I hang up.
Maybe James can help.
“Okay, Dad. I hear you.”
“Good,” he responds. “I’ll be home in the next few weeks, and we can have dinner. A night for just the two of us, okay?”