Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

The night bled into my hands, each face flashing through my memory like a grotesque slideshow of failure. There hadn’t been just three of them. No, there were far more—wolves drawn to the scent of blood that I had unleashed. I had opened the door that night, had beckoned them inside, and now their names and faces clung to me like a disease.

I wasn’t doing this for vengeance. Vengeance was selfish. This was for her—for Kira.

She’d given me her trust, shaky and fragile as it was, and I’d torn it apart. I’d failed her in ways I couldn’t even begin to reconcile. But I could make this right. I would make this right.

The first one was sitting at a bar, laughing too loudly, surrounded by people who probably didn’t even know what kind of man he was. It was disgusting.

I waited until he stepped outside, fumbling with his phone as he stumbled toward the parking lot. His arrogance made him careless, blind to the figure stalking him in the shadows.

“Owen?” His voice broke the quiet before I could speak, recognition flashing across his face. “What—what are you doing here, man?”

The way he said my name—like we were friends, like I wasn’t about to ruin his entire life—made my blood boil.

“You,” I growled, stepping out of the shadows. “You don’t deserve to say my name.”

Confusion flickered across his face before realization set in, his expression twisting into something panicked. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble?—”

“You don’t want trouble?” My voice was low, dangerous. “You made trouble the moment you touched her.”

“I didn’t?—”

I didn’t let him finish. I grabbed his collar, slamming him against the car. His phone clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he clawed at my hands.

“She was mine,” I snarled, my face inches from his. “And you thought you could take her from me? Like she was nothing?”

“She wanted it!” he cried, his voice desperate, his words scraping against my last shred of control. “You—you’re the one who brought us in! You’re the one who?—”

My fist collided with his face before he could finish, the crunch of bone and cartilage echoing through the quiet parking lot. He groaned, blood pouring from his nose as he sagged against the car.

“She didn’t want you,” I hissed, my knife slipping into my hand. “She never wanted any of you.”

His screams filled the air, sharp and short-lived. By the time I was done, his arrogance was gone, replaced by pain and fear. He wouldn’t be laughing again anytime soon.

They weren’t hard to find. Men like them rarely were.

The second one had been easy to track through his social media. He was just as predictable—loud, overconfident, flaunting his gym sessions and his nights out like trophies. He knew me, of course. Everyone on campus did.

“Sinclair?” he said when he saw me standing in his doorway. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The weight of my presence was enough to make him falter, his bravado slipping as he stepped back into his apartment.

“You’re the hockey guy, right?” he said, his tone wary. “Look, if this is about that girl?—”

“It’s exactly about that girl,” I interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door behind me.

He tried to push past me, to run, but I was faster. I shoved him back, pinning him against the wall. “Do you even remember her name?” I asked, my voice a low growl.

“What?” He shook his head, his confusion quickly turning to panic. “No—I mean?—”

“That’s what I thought.” My knife pressed against his throat, the edge biting into his skin just enough to draw blood. “You don’t even remember her, but you thought you could take something from her. From me. ”

“She was already there!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “You—you tied her up! You brought us in! It wasn’t just me?—”

“And now it’s just you,” I said coldly, silencing him with a swift, calculated strike.

The rest of them knew me, too. That was the thing about being the golden boy on campus. My name carried weight, whether I wanted it to or not.

Some tried to reason with me, their voices trembling as they reminded me of our shared circles, our mutual friends.

“Come on, Sinclair,” one of them pleaded, his back pressed against the wall of a dingy frat house. “We’re on the same side here!”

Others tried to fight back, their desperation driving them to lash out. But it didn’t matter. I was stronger, faster, more driven by a purpose they couldn’t comprehend.

One by one, I hunted them down. I made them pay by taking away from them the part of them that touched her. And with each act, the weight of my guilt grew heavier, even as the fire of my obsession burned brighter.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the world outside was beginning to blur. Blood stained my clothes, my hands, my thoughts. I looked at myself in the mirror, my reflection barely recognizable.

The man staring back at me was a stranger—his eyes hollow, his face gaunt, his body trembling with the aftermath of violence.

But it wasn’t regret that I felt. It wasn’t remorse.

It was love. Twisted, broken, all-consuming love.

Kira had unraveled me, stripped me down to my rawest, most primal self. And I’d do it all over again.

I reached out, my bloody fingers brushing against the glass.

She was mine.

And no one— no one —would ever hurt her again.