“You killed your brother.”
I shook my head. I didn’t. I was saving him.
“You killed him, Maverick. I’m going to tell your parents now.”
She straightened, but her hand was still on my cheek.
“N-no.” My voice was hoarse. I could barely get the word out, but I knew I hadn’t. I hadn’t meant to, anyway. I was…she was…
She hit me, with a closed fist. I felt blinding hot pain as I closed my eyes. I tasted blood in my mouth. My ears were hot and ringing, and then she did it again.
I sunk to my knees.
She turned away without a word.
But she was going to tell my parents. And if she thought that hit hurt, she had no idea what my father’s hands were capable of.
I stood up, closing my eyes tight, swallowing back the tears, swallowing down the blood in my mouth.
She killed Malachi.
I didn’t do that.
She did.
She headed inside, into my parents’ room. And I knew there was something special in there. Something I wasn’t supposed to use.
I waited until she had enough time to disappear into the hallway, and then, without looking over the edge of the balcony—if I didn’t look, he was still alive—I crept into my parent’s room.
He was still alive.
He was still going to be alive.
My feet were wet from peeing on myself, and damp footprints appeared on their polished wooden floor with every step I took toward their bed, but I could clean that up later. I’d deal with that after I dealt with…her.
I found it, on my dad’s side of the bed.
A hammer. A mallet, my father had said. It had a yellow handle. Steel head. It was heavy, but adrenaline was suddenly flooding through me at the possibilities. At the ideas.
At what I could do to her with this hammer.
I picked it up, struggling at first, but as anger replaced my fear, it was easier.
And when I found her coming up the stairs, holding the house phone pressed against her ear, it was easier still.
I was at the top step.
I thought about shoving her down, but that didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t as high of a fall from my parents’ balcony. Malachi had screamed longer than she would.
That wasn’t fair.
I swung as her eyes connected with mine, her mouth dropping open. I was strong enough. My father had put us all in sports. I had lean muscle.
The hammer struck her temple.
The phone fell from her hands, but she was gripping the railing and she didn’t fall back. Not more than a few steps.
I took one step down, my feet nearly slipping from the piss. I steadied myself. Took a breath. Flexed my fingers on the yellow rubber of the handle, and I swung again.
I heard something crack.
She didn’t even scream.
But that time, she fell.
All the way down.
She didn’t move, lying face up, her head swelling at her temple. I walked slowly toward her, and I heard someone shouting on the other end of the phone, back up on the steps. I didn’t listen. Didn’t go back for it.
But I swung again.
And again.
Until her warm blood coated my warm legs.
I didn’t stop until someone’s hands went to my arms, yanking the weapon from me.
Mayhem.
A crime that causes a disfiguring, permanent injury. It can include loss of a limb. An eye. Brain damage.
That’s what she got.
She got to forget. She went into a home and was taken off life support a few months later. She got to die.
I didn’t.
I didn’t get to forget. My parents tried. Brooklin tried.
I couldn’t.
I heard him scream.
I heard his little body hit the ground.
I never forgot.
Father Tomas and his whip were the closest I ever came to forgetting, because in the pain, it’s hard to remember. It’s hard to think.
But when the ache goes away, it always comes back.
Until her. Until I met a little devil in the woods, it was always there in my brain.
But then she came around…and the past went quiet.
My wrists are tied to the chair, rope digging into my skin. I blink, my eyelids so heavy, my throat so fucking dry.
The room feels damp, but there’s nothing but brick walls surrounding me. Brick walls and a tapestry ahead of me, white with a red sigil.
I squeeze my eyes closed. Force myself to take a few deep breaths, force myself to exhale longer than I inhale.
I open my eyes again.
It’s the Leviathan cross. The same one Father Tomas wears. My back itches when I think of him. The whip. The pain. The numbness in the sting.
Did he help with this year’s Noctem?
Does he know the worst thing I’ve ever done?
Ella does.
Ella knows, and she didn’t run. She didn’t leave. Ella knows the worst thing I ever did was born from love and ended in death.
She knows how this could end, and she still didn’t leave.
I grit my teeth, unable to look away from the tapestry.
And then I hear a voice.
“Maverick.”
My skin crawls. No. It can’t be.
“Maverick,” Sid says again, her voice a throaty whisper. I turn my head, cast my eyes around the dark room. But no one is here.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
“Maverick, why won’t you look at me?” There’s a desperate whine to her voice and I close my eyes tight.
She’s at home. She’s with Ella.
They’re...safe.
Aren’t they?
Someone’s soft fingers circle around my wrists.
My eyes snap open, my breath coming out in a rush.
Sid.
Her silver eyes are big and sad. She’s kneeling against me, her fingers gripping me just above the rope. “Maverick, do you love me?”
She’s not here. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t.
But she’s going to do so much worse.
My eyes dip down despite myself, and I see she’s wearing a black tank top, tight against her small frame. Her nipples are tented against the sheer fabric, and she has short black shorts on.
She lets go of one wrist, brings her hand to her thigh, sliding the silky material of her shorts up. Higher. And higher.
I can’t look away.
I can smell her.
Lavender.
I can nearly taste her as she pulls back her shorts, revealing the dark lace of her panties.
“Maverick, do you miss me?”
I don’t answer. I close my eyes.
I feel her grind against my fingers. She moans my name, pressing harder. And then I feel her against me, her slick, wet....
“Stop.”
She thrusts herself harder against my hand, her fingers digging into my wrist on one hand, the other presumably holding back the fabric of her underwear.
I refuse to look.
I won’t look.
But I can smell her. And my fingers want to be in her.
No. I don’t move. No.
“Maverick,” she moans. “Let me touch you.”
My dick hardens painfully, my stomach clenching. I refuse to open my eyes. This isn’t real. “Stop, Sid.” My voice is hoarse. “Please stop.”
Her nails dig in deeper. She’s panting, rubbing herself against me faster. On the back of my knuckles, I can feel all of her ridges, her wet, slick skin. “I know he loves me, but not like you do. You would let me be free,” she whimpers. “You know me. You love me.” She presses in close, her lips against my throat. “You know what I like, Maverick—”