Chapter 17: THOUGHTS

***\-DAMIAN-***

Jax moved with the cold efficiency of a man who was in control of every situation, no matter how chaotic it was. He went to the bed, his steps soft but firm, and gave me a quick, sharp look. “Help me put them on,” he said, his voice tight, an order, not a request. “Come on, hurry up.”

I wanted to contradict him, wanted to scream in his face that he should keep his hands off her, but I knew that this was not the moment for that. My breathing was heavy, my chest rose and fell with an anger that I could only suppress with the greatest effort. Reluctantly, I stepped to the bed, my hands shaking as I bent over.

Jax lifted her upper body, his grip secure, almost gentle, as I carefully pulled the blood-soaked sweatshirt over her head. The cold air of the room hit her pale skin, and I paused for a moment when I saw the bandages he had placed around her wounds. It looked better than before, but the blood seeping through the bandages left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Hurry up,” he urged, his voice like a knife at my neck. ”She needs fresh clothes, Damian. Pack her bag.”

I wanted to scream at him, tell him to go to hell, but my legs moved of their own accord. I went to her closet, pulling out a bunch of clothes at random—a few sweatshirts, sweatpants, underwear—and stuffed them in a bag. My hands were shaking so much I almost dropped half of it.

Meanwhile, Jax lifted Celine out of bed, her limp, motionless form looking so fragile in his arms. He carried her as if she were made of glass, each of his steps deliberate and precise. “I’ll take her to the car,” he said without turning around. “When you’re done, come with the stuff so I can drive.”

His words burned in my mind, making my anger flare up like a raging fire inside me. I seethed with rage, but I knew he was right. I hated him for being the one who knew what to do, who was in control. I hated him for it, because I had no choice but to rely on him.

“I could have done this alone,” I murmured softly, almost to myself, as I closed the bag. But the words felt hollow, even to me.

I went to the window and watched as Jax opened the front door and carried Celine out into the cool night air. His shadow loomed under the moonlight, a dark, ominous silhouette that I couldn’t get out of my head. He was the devil in human form, and yet I had to trust him now.

“Damn it,” I whispered, clenching my teeth. This time I had to rely on him. No matter how much I hated him, how much I didn’t want to trust him, Celine was more important than my pride, more important than my hatred.

I reached for the bag, my fingers clenched around the handle, and I walked to the door. But before I went out, I paused, my eyes wandering back to the bed where she had been lying. The room suddenly felt empty, as cold and unapproachable as my own thoughts.

I took a deep breath and finally stepped out into the darkness. The cold wind hit my face, but I let it. It was as if the cold dampened the rage in me a little. When I reached Jax, he was standing next to the car, Celine in the back seat, covered with a blanket he had found somewhere.

“That’s her bag,” I said curtly, handing it to him.

He just nodded, took the bag and put it in the trunk. His eyes met mine, and for a moment there was something there that I couldn’t interpret – pity? Contempt? Perhaps both.

Darkness enveloped me like a cloak as I turned away from Jax and went back into the house. The cold wind bit into my skin, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside of me. Every step echoed in the eerie silence, the sound of my boots on the creaking floor an oppressive symphony of anger and revenge.

I would kill him. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. As soon as he was no longer of use, as soon as I knew that Celine was safe, I would end it. **He would die.**

The thoughts ate their way through my head like poisonous thorns. The smile that slowly crept across my lips was cold, almost relishing.

I thought of him – of our father. The monster that had destroyed us before we even knew what it meant to be whole. My lips curled into a wider grin as I conjured up the image in my mind: **how he was hanging there.**

The basement had been cold, the air thick and heavy with the metallic tang of blood that had never left my nostrils since. His body, skewered like a piece of meat, dangled from the ceiling, his eyes wide with pain and mortal terror. I had shown him no mercy. **Why should I?**

My hands didn’t tremble when I held the knife. It was precise, every twitch of his muscles was proof that I controlled him, that I had finally broken him. I remember the warmth of his blood, how it ran down my hands in a scarlet stream as I brought the knife to his throat.

I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to feel what I had endured all these years. Slowly and with surgical precision, I had begun to dismember his body – piece by piece. His screams echoed in my ears, a melody sweeter than any symphony I had ever heard. They filled me, giving me a peace I could not find anywhere else.

His cock was the first thing I cut off. I enjoyed watching the realization flash in his eyes that I had taken from him what he needed most to break me. The pain on his face was like a painting I wanted to look at again and again.

“Not so great now that you have nothing left to exert your power with, is it?” I whispered in his ear as the blood spurted out of his body in a hot fountain.

Then I cut out his tongue. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a choked, gurgling sound as he began to suffocate on his own blood. It had been almost poetic how the tool he had used to break me so often had finally been silenced.

I remembered every detail, the look in his eyes as life slowly drained from him. It had been like a release, not for him, but for me. It was the first time I had felt free, the first time I felt in control.

There was something liberating about every sharp blade I drew. My movements were precise, almost mechanical, as the knife sliced through flesh and bone. It wasn’t just an act, it was a ritual, a work that had to be completed.

The individual parts lay neatly next to each other on the cold concrete floor, each placement carefully considered. An arm, slightly bent, fingers still clenched in a grotesque gesture that expressed nothing but despair. The legs, cleanly severed, the pale feet limp, almost lifeless, although they had been so long ago. And the head... The head was in a position that gave the impression that it was looking at the scenery, as if it were cursing me for what I had done.

My breathing was calm. No trembling in my hands, no regrets in my thoughts. This was necessary.

I washed my hands, the lukewarm water turned red, ran down my fingers in thin rivulets before it disappeared down the drain. The shirt was soaked, stuck to my skin, but that didn’t bother me. I took it off and threw it carelessly on the floor. My footsteps echoed as I went up the stairs, opened the door behind me and stepped into the bright, warm kitchen.

The scent of herbs and roasted meat hung in the air, and for a moment it almost felt normal. My mother was standing at the stove, focused, with a satisfied smile as she coated the roast with a shiny sauce. She turned to me, her eyes briefly irritated when she saw my condition. Barefoot, naked from the waist up, my hair disheveled as if I had walked through a storm.

“Damian, what happened? Why do you look like that?” Her voice sounded worried, but also slightly annoyed, as if I were another inconvenience in her day.

I smiled. “I have a surprise for you.”

She frowned. ’A surprise? What kind of surprise?”

“Come with me, I want to show you.’ I held out my hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, she placed hers in mine. She felt small and fragile, as if I could crush her with a firm grip.

“Damian, I have the roast in the oven...”

“It won’t take long. Trust me.” My voice was calm, almost gentle, and she finally nodded, following me as I led her to the basement. The stairs creaked under our steps, the darkness seemed to become thicker the deeper we went. The faint smell of metal and something sweet was in the air, and I felt her flinch as she caught it.

“Damian, what—?”

The words stuck in her throat as I opened the door and she entered the room. Her eyes slowly traveled across the floor, lingering on each individual piece, until her eyes reached the head. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and then it burst out of her – a miserable, bloodcurdling screech that broke the silence and gave me a strange feeling of satisfaction.

“What have you done? Oh my God, what have you done?!” Her voice cracked, trembled, was a chaos of horror and disbelief. She backed away, wanted to flee, but I was faster. With two quick steps, I had grabbed her, my fingers digging into her arm as I dragged her in front of the grotesque scene.

“Sew him back together!” My voice was a whisper that seared like poison through the air. I held the knife in my other hand, raised it and pointed at the scattered parts. ’Undo it. You have to undo it.”

Her eyes widened, tears streamed down her face as she shook her head. ’Damian... I... I can’t...”

“Yes, you can!” I grabbed her harder, feeling her tremble under my grip. ‘You’re his wife, you’re obliged to do it! You always wanted everything to be perfect, didn’t you? Then make it perfect!’ My voice grew louder, darker, something inside me vibrated, as if a demon was awakening inside me, a creature I could no longer hold back.

She fell to her knees, her hands grasping at nothing, and her screaming turned to a desperate whimper. And I stood over her, knife in hand, a shadow consuming everything she had ever known, and when she refused to do as I asked, I stabbed... a few times...

My smile grew wider, colder, as I pushed away from the door and walked into the kitchen. My hands instinctively reached for a glass, which I filled with water, but my thoughts remained stuck in the past. The memories were like a movie that kept playing over and over, each time with more detail, more intensity.

Jax would suffer the same fate. Maybe not exactly the same – I wasn’t a fan of repeating myself. But he would suffer. I would make sure he knew what it meant to be broken. But first he had to help Celine. I hated him, yes, but I needed him. Still.

I took a deep gulp of water, letting the cold dampen the anger inside me a little. But deep inside, I knew that the flames hadn’t really been extinguished. They waited, lurked, ready to flare up again as soon as the time was right.

“Enjoy your time, Jax,” I murmured softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. ”Because it won’t last much longer.”