CHAPTER 52
I open the container and dive in.
Not like someone picking at dinner in the aftermath of trauma.
Like someone starving.
I tear into it like a woman trying to fill the crater where her sanity used to be. Tandoori chicken. Basmati rice. Both samosas. Half the naan. The sauces. I drink the wine, refill the glass, and pour a third without thinking.
By the time I climb the stairs, my stomach is full and my head fuzzy, but none of it dulls the buzzing tension under my skin.
Dexter’s already curled up in his bed like he didn’t just watch his human commit murder. He lifts his head, blinks at me, then returns to chewing like he’s showing that bone who’s boss.
Cozy under my comforter, I scroll the news with one hand, wine in the other, searching for proof the universe is catching up to what I did.
But there’s nothing.
No reports. No sirens. No headlines about mystery bodies or vigilante justice.
I lie down slowly, like I’m afraid I might break the moment. My body sinks into the mattress, limbs weighted by exhaustion and wine, but my brain refuses to shut off.
Dexter lets out a soft sigh as he shifts into his usual curl, snaggletooth catching the lamplight like punctuation on a very long, very weird day.
I watch the shadows shift on the ceiling. Eyes open. Thoughts circling like vultures.
I don’t feel guilty.
I feel… alert.
Like something’s coming.
Like it’s already on the way.
It’s not sleep, so I pick up the burner phone with the kind of dread usually reserved for tax audits and pap smears.
The stillness buzzes under my skin like a warning.
I flip open the screen.
The texts hit all at once. Dozens.
Warnings.
Panic.
All caps.
Location pins.
Messages that read like screams typed too fast to spellcheck. From someone who wasn’t just worried—someone desperate.
And I didn’t see a single one until it was too late.
I thumb through them slowly, like maybe reading slower will lessen the guilt curdling in my stomach.
One of the last just says:
I can’t lose you.
I close the phone. Look around again, hoping to spot some sign of the surveillance I’ve apparently been under. Nothing obvious. No blinking lights. No hidden lens. But I know he’s here. Or at least watching.
I’m thinking he always is.
I set the phone in my lap and sit up straighter, heart thudding loud in my chest like it’s trying to work up the nerve before my mouth does.
“Are you… there?”
I wait.
Ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.
The phone dings.
UNKNOWN: Always.
My breath leaves me in a soft, shaking exhale. One single tear slips down my cheek—too slow to feel dramatic, too fast to stop.
I whisper the truth before I can second-guess it.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
The phone stays dark.
No reply.
I swallow hard. Try to pull the blanket tighter even though I already feel like I’m wrapped in tension. Time stretches.
Then Dexter lifts his head, growling.
My entire body goes still. Every nerve humming.
In the doorway, a shadow cast in matte black. That white skull on the black balaclava reflecting nothing back at me but quiet promise.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.
So I do too.
He walks toward me slowly—measured steps meant to soothe, not startle. He doesn’t approach the bed. Doesn’t reach for me. Just lowers himself into the window chair like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Maybe he has.
Maybe before Dexter. Before I knew. Before tonight made monsters out of both of us.
He just sits there. Watching. Breathing. Massive and unmoving, the way a mountain watches a storm roll in.
Then he pulls out his phone. Mine chimes.
UNKNOWN: Sleep. I’ll stay.
My grip on the blankets softens.
The tension in my shoulders unwinds.
And for the first time in what feels like years, I let go.
I let the weight settle and finally sleep.
The world hums, a low-vibrating sound that fills the night.
I’m on my knees, blood soaking my hands, dripping down my forearms. The knife is still in my grip, grounding me in a moment I cannot process.
My breathing comes fast and shallow, each inhale scraping my throat as I watch the body slacken, life slipping away.
This should be where the quiet settles in—where the air turns heavy and I can finally breathe again, cocooned by the strange euphoria that always follows.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the air presses colder. Thicker. Refusing to let me go.
The darkness stretches around me, and behind, I hear the scrape of boots. I turn just enough to catch him—masked—stepping from the shadows like he’s always been there.
My fingers drift down my thigh. I’m naked. Red stains my stomach, legs, arms, dripping from my fingertips like paint from a broken brush.
He doesn’t speak. Just drops behind me until his chest brushes my back, his thighs bracketing mine. Together, we kneel like we’re praying to a god that demands savagery instead of salvation.
One hand slides around my waist, fingers slipping between my legs. The other drifts higher, wrapping around my throat—firm but careful.
I lean back instinctively, resting my head against his shoulder, my body falling into his like we’ve done this a thousand times.
A sigh slips out, my frame easing into his control like it was always meant to.
His body moves first, a slow roll of his hips, and mine follows—guided by a force I cannot resist.
His pelvis grinds in deliberate waves, each one tightening my skin and clenching muscle.
His fingers part me with a tenderness that shouldn’t exist in a place soaked with blood. Heat floods through me, thick and coiling deep.
I want to reach for him. Drop the knife. Rip the mask away.
But my hand won’t move.
I try—to lift, to shift, to stand.
But it’s like one of those dreams—you run and run, but stay rooted.
Helpless.
The realization bleeds in slowly, slicing through the haze.
This isn’t real.