Chapter 220 GOOD RIDDANCE.

Chapter 220 GOOD RIDDANCE.


AVERY’S POV:

Suddenly, the doors flew open—slammed so hard they echoed like a war drum—and a wave of men surged inside, armed and ruthless, their guns already firing before the goons with Astrid could even react.

Gunshots exploded through the warehouse like thunder—sharp, loud, terrifying.

I gasped, watching in wide-eyed disbelief as two of the men—familiar faces from Axel’s circle—moved like phantoms through the smoke and chaos, precise in their aim. No hesitation. No mercy.

On the far side, glass shattered—windows exploding into deadly confetti—and the warehouse erupted in pure, unfiltered panic. Astrid’s men screamed and scrambled, stumbling over crates and each other, completely unprepared for the assault.

Astrid.

My eyes darted, searching.

She was gone.

I caught the flash of her back, her long legs cutting through the fog of gunfire as she raced toward the open doors, a gun clenched in her hand, eyes wild with rage. A coward’s retreat.

I twisted hard in my chair, trying to shake myself free, metal biting into my skin. But it was no use—the cuffs held fast, and the chair, bolted to the concrete, wouldn’t budge.

"Come on," I hissed, yanking harder, wrists raw and slick with blood. "Please, move—"

It appeared most of the gunfire was taking place around the doors. I took a deep breath and waited.

The shouting grew louder. Gunfire closer.

Then—

A bullet flew past me, close enough to singe the air by my ear. Another hit the table behind me, and I flinched as it crashed to the floor, wood splintering like it had been punched by a god.

I ducked instinctively, heart slamming against my ribs, every breath jagged and tight.

Then another shot—ping!—ricocheted off the floor inches from my right foot, skipping away like a warning.

I held my breath.

Everything was heat and noise. Screams. Bullets. Shadows moving too fast.

Bullets struck something above me and metal shrieked as a heavy beam came crashing down just behind my chair.

The sound was deafening. Dust exploded into the air, choking and blinding, as shards of rusted debris scattered like shrapnel.

I flinched. I couldn’t move much — the cuffs still bit into my skin like cruel reminders that I wasn’t free. Not yet.

More yelling followed, fast and frantic—boots slamming against the floor, gunfire trailing. Then, just as suddenly, it ebbed into silence.

My head snapped toward the rear as a dark silhouette jumped through a broken window—Thaddeus. His dark clothes coated with glass dust. He hit the ground hard and ran straight for me, Dante and four others right behind him, eyes alert, guns drawn.

They froze.

All of them raised their weapons—pointed right at me.

My breath hitched. My spine pressed into the chair. “Thaddeus…?” My voice was hoarse. A plea.

For half a second, I truly thought they might pull the trigger. My body went rigid in the chair.

His gaze flicked over me just once—then past me.

But then—

Bang!

A scream tore through the air behind me, followed by the sickening thud of a body hitting the concrete

I turned my head just as warm blood spattered across the concrete beside me. One of Astrid’s men—gone before he even knew it was coming.

I whipped my head around again to face Thaddeus. He broke into a run.

“Thaddeus!” I gasped, lungs heaving. “How did you find me?”

“I didn’t go home,” he said, already lowering his gun. “I followed you. Couldn't make a move sooner—I was alone. Had to call in backup.”

Of course he didn’t listen. Just like me. Always too stubborn to follow orders.

He knelt beside the chair and aimed at the bolts welding it to the floor and fired. Bang. Bang. Two clean direct hit to the bolts welding my chair down. Sparks flew as metal screamed. The cuffs snapped loose.

The moment my wrists were free, I I yanked my arms free, pain flaring in my raw wrists, and quickly rubbed the sting away. The room around me was a graveyard of broken men. Most of Astrid’s goons were either dead or bleeding out. Crumpled like discarded puppets. The air pulsed with groans and choking gasps,

I turned slowly—and there she was.

Astrid.

Pinned down by Dante on the hood of a car, one hand locked behind her back, like the filthy coward she was. Her face was flushed with fury, but her eyes—her eyes betrayed panic. She’d run and hidden in her car when it mattered while her people bled for her.

And then she had the nerve—the pure, toxic nerve—to try and shoot me while everyone else lowered their guard.

Her bullet missed. Just like her entire damn plan.

“A knife,” I said, eyes never leaving her face.

Someone slipped the hilt of one into my palm without a word.

I didn’t hesitate.

My legs moved before my thoughts did—raw instinct, deep and primal.

I didn’t go to Astrid. Not yet.

I stopped Instead, crouching by the nearest groaning body—the ugly bastard who had slapped me, the taste of humiliation still burning on my tongue.

I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look at me through half-closed, bloodshot eyes.

“You remember me?” I asked.

His eyes widened with recognition—then fear.

Good.

The knife gleamed in the overhead light, and I raised it without hesitation. “I remember you.”

Astrid was staring at me now—really staring. Her eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were wide. Terrified. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but no sound came out.

I kept my gaze on her as I pressed the knife to the side of the man’s neck beneath me. He whimpered when the cold blade kissed his skin.

With one smooth pull, I opened his throat.

Warm blood flowed down my hand in thick rivulets, coating my fingers and soaking into the cuff of my gown.

The noise stopped. Everything stopped.

I let his body crumple at my feet and stepped over it like a discarded coat. The next man—the skinny one with yellowed teeth and a cigarette—was slumped nearby, unconscious. But still breathing.

Too bad.

I grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair and yanked his head up. His eyelids fluttered.

“Wake up,” I whispered, and I dragged the blade across his throat in one slow stroke.

His eyes went wide as blood fountained up and splashed over my chest. My gown was soaked with blood from bodice to hem. I didn’t care. Let the world see what she made me become.

A sound broke behind me.

A soft, strangled gasp.

Astrid.

She was watching. Still pinned by Dante, but now trembling. I could feel her panic—how it spiked and pulsed in the air between us.

I took a step toward her. Then another.

And another.

Her eyes locked onto mine, and the fear in them was almost sweet. Her lips began to move.

"Avery... please. You don't have to do this," she said, her voice breaking. "I—I was scared. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. You have to understand—"

"I gave you chances," I said calmly, my voice cutting through her words like the blade in my hand. "So many, Astrid. I stood by you when you didn’t deserve it. I would’ve done anything for you. All you had to do was not let the sour rot of Lyra destroy your heart."

Her expression twisted at the mention of Lyra. Guilt flickered across her face, quickly swallowed by shame.

I kept walking.

“You almost killed me today,” I said, voice quieter now, as I stopped in front of her. “You almost killed my baby.”

Her lips trembled. “I didn’t know— I wasn’t going to—”

“For Baron,” I whispered. “For Axel. For the child you almost took from me.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and she tried to twist from Dante’s grip. “Please—Avery, please—I was desperate! You don’t know what it’s like to—”

“And for Esmeraya and Vaerio,” I interrupted, each name a dagger of its own. “You touched people I loved. And you thought I’d let it slide.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t know he’d die—”

I raised the knife.

She screamed.

And I drove it into her stomach.

The first stab tore a sharp cry from her lips. Blood burst against my hand, hot and fast.

I pulled back.

And stabbed again.

This time lower. Deeper. I angled the blade. Twisted. I wanted her to feel it.

I wanted her to understand.

Every time I remembered Baron’s head… I stabbed.

When I pictured Axel fighting for breath—I stabbed again.

When I remembered the fear crawling of almost losing my children because of her.

I drove the blade into her abdomen until it jammed against bone. Her breath hitched—choked—and she sagged against me, head falling forward, eyes glassy with disbelief.

Her lips brushed my shoulder as she went limp.

Dead weight.

I held her there for a moment.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I needed to feel the exact second she slipped away.

Then, without emotion, I shoved her body off me and let her fall like trash to the floor.

“I’ll be a better daughter to Wilder,” I whispered, and spat on her bloodied face.

The warehouse was silent.

Only the sound of blood dripping from the tip of my blade remained.