38. Lena

38

LENA

M y knuckles rap against the wood, echoing through the still evening air. I stand before the familiar door, my heart hammering against my ribs as the clock strikes seven. My cell phone is in the apartment back in Boston as I couldn’t have my cell place me here on the night Mr. Wilson goes missing. But I feel oddly vulnerable without it.

Inside, I hear Mr. Wilson’s heavy footsteps and grumbling.The floorboards creak under his weight. Each step closer sends ice through my veins as memories of his hands on me resurface. I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to run. Talon’s presence somewhere in the shadows steadies me.

The door swings open. Mr. Wilson’s bulky frame fills the doorway, his beady eyes widening. The stench of whiskey wafts from him, making my stomach turn.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His words slur together, his face reddening.

I force my voice to remain steady. “I don’t have classes tomorrow. With everything that’s happened with David, I just...” I swallow hard, channeling the grief I’m supposed to feel. “I needed something familiar. Somewhere that feels like home.”

His eyes narrow, scanning me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. The porch light casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the cruel lines around his mouth.

“You look different,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “City life’s changed you.”

I drop my gaze to the ground, playing the part of the broken foster daughter. “Everything’s changed since David disappeared. I just... I don’t know where else to go.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I keep my expression vulnerable. Open. Just as Talon and I planned.

Mr. Wilson steps aside, waving me in with exaggerated courtesy. The familiar musty smell of the house hits me—stale cigarettes and cheap bourbon. His hand brushes against me as I pass, making my skin crawl beneath my sweater. I clench my jaw, fighting back bile.

“Been a while since you’ve been home.” His words drip with something dark. “Must be lonely without David around.”

I wrap my arms tighter around myself, keeping my eyes down. “I need to freshen up. Maybe take a shower.”

A predatory grin spreads across his face. “I could join you. We’re all alone here tonight. Mrs. Wilson has her weekly book club meeting. I could make sure you don’t slip.” He leans closer, alcohol heavy on his breath. “Give me a little show like the old days.”

My hands shake as memories flood back—the terror, the pain, being trapped in this house with nowhere to run. But now it’s different. Talon is waiting upstairs, climbing the familiar route to my old bedroom window.

I stay calm, remembering our plan. Every degrading comment and violation leads exactly where we want it to.

I climb the familiar stairs, my footsteps light against the worn carpet. Mr. Wilson’s heavy breathing follows close behind. The sound makes me jumpy, but I keep moving forward.

My old bedroom door looms ahead. Everything looks smaller now, less intimidating than when I was a child. I reach for the light switch with trembling fingers, flicking it on. The yellow glow fills the room as I step inside.

Mr. Wilson stumbles in after me, his eyes glazed from the whiskey. The door slams shut behind him with a thunderous bang. His head whips around, face contorting in shock as he spots Talon.

“What the—” His meaty hand fumbles for his cell phone.

I snatch it from his grasp before he can get his fingers around it. The device feels cold and heavy in my palm.

“What is this?” Mr. Wilson’s voice rises to a hysterical pitch. His eyes dart between Talon and me like a cornered animal. “What are you doing in my house?”

Sweat beads on his forehead as he backs away from the door. His chest heaves with panicked breaths.

“You can’t... you’re not supposed to be here.” He points a shaking finger at Talon. “I got rid of you. I made sure you were gone!”

The confidence and cruelty from moments ago evaporate as Mr. Wilson realizes he’s the one trapped and at our mercy for once. His face drains of color when he notices the knife in Talon’s hand, leaving him pale and sickly under the harsh bedroom light.

The air feels heavy, pregnant with the promise of violence. Talon’s eyes meet mine, his expression dark and unyielding. Mr. Wilson’s eyes dart between us like a trapped animal, his face a mask of fear.

Talon moves with lightning speed. He grabs Mr. Wilson by the collar, pushing him face-first onto the bed. Before he can struggle, Talon has him tied up, gagged, and trussed like a pig ready for roasting. His clothes are gone, and my former abuser is left naked and vulnerable, just as I was when he forced himself inside me.

This is it.

My heart pounds in my chest, a mixture of adrenaline and something else... excitement. I try to tamp down the rebellious thrill coursing through me, but it’s no use. A deviant smile tugs at my lips.

Talon hands me the knife. It’s cold and heavy in my palm, a weighty promise of retribution. My breath catches as Mr. Wilson’s eyes meet mine, pleading and terrified.

I remember the nightmares, the bruises, the sheer terror he instilled in me. But now, the power dynamic has shifted. I’m in control.

With steady hands, I bring the knife to his shoulder, drawing a shallow line across his skin. A bead of red rises to the surface, trickling down his arm. He thrashes against his restraints, his muffled whines filling the room. But Talon and I only smile at each other.

Talon takes over, slicing with precision and delight. Soon, Mr. Wilson is painted with his own blood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He’s aware and suffering, but he’s not yet done. We’re just getting started.

My inhibitions melt away as I watch Talon’s back flex with each cut, his muscles taut with concentration. I’ve wanted this for so long. To see this bastard broken, begging for mercy.

The knife slips from Talon’s hand, landing on the tarp with a soft thud. I reach for it, but Talon shakes his head. He grabs my hand, pulling me to meet his lips for a hungry kiss.

We fall onto the bed together, our feverish need for each other overcoming us. Mr. Wilson’s eyes bulge as he watches, his mouth working silently around the gag. He wanted a show, and he’s going to get one.

Talon enters me, filling me with his hardness. I cry out, biting my lip to stifle the sound. Talon whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

“Let him hear you,” he urges me. “Let him know what he’s missing.”

I moan, my head falling back as Talon thrusts into me. “Is this the show you wanted?” I call out, addressing Mr. Wilson. “How does it feel to be on the other side?”

He tries to speak, but the gag silences him. His eyes burn with hatred, but he’s powerless to stop us. I lean forward, pressing my lips to Talon’s ear.

“Make me yours,” I whisper. “Right here, in front of him.”

Talon’s hips move faster, his breath coming in sharp gasps. “This is what you get for hurting her,” he growls at Mr. Wilson. “A front-row seat to your worst nightmare.”

Our movements become frantic, driven by the darkness within us and our shared desire. Mr. Wilson’s eyes glaze over as his life slips away, his body bloody and broken. But Talon and I are lost in each other, our climax washing over us like a tidal wave.

As we come back to earth, we realize Mr. Wilson’s lifeless gaze is fixed on us, his eyes wide and unblinking. Talon’s hand trails down my back, resting on my hip.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he groans.

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip because it is shockingly arousing. What that says about me and my mental state, I don’t know. All I know is that I love Talon so fucking much. “I love you.”

The words hang heavy in the air between us. “Fuck, do you know how long I wanted you to tell me that? I fucking love you too, princess. Always have and always will.”

We kiss then, but it’s slower and more heartfelt than before. When we break apart, Talon rests his forehead against mine. “We need to start the cleanup. Shower first.”

I nod in reply and get off the bed, heading into the bathroom. The shower’s hot spray washes away blood and sweat, turning pink as it swirls down the drain. Talon’s hands move methodically over my skin, ensuring no trace remains. His touch is clinical now, focused on the task at hand.

“Turn,” he instructs, and I comply as he scrubs my back.

We dry off quickly and seal our clothes and the towels we dried off with in black garbage bags.

Back in the bedroom, I help Talon wrap Mr. Wilson’s flaccid, naked body in heavy black plastic. The tarp beneath him made cleanup easier, catching most of the blood. We secure the wrapping with duct tape, working in silence.

“Hold the light,” Talon says, handing me a UV flashlight.

I sweep the blue beam across the floor and walls. At the same time, he follows with a cleaning solution, methodically removing any traces we might have missed. The metallic smell of blood mingles with harsh chemicals.

“Clear,” I whisper after triple-checking every surface.

We carry the wrapped bundle down the stairs, careful not to bump the walls. My arms strain under the weight. Outside, we check there’s no one about. The night air is cool against my damp skin as we load Mr. Wilson into Talon’s trunk.

I slide into the passenger seat, exhausted but alert. Talon starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. As we begin the long drive back to Boston, the house disappears in the rearview mirror.

The highway stretches empty before us, streetlights casting intermittent shadows across the dashboard. In the trunk, our cargo lies silent. My foster father’s final resting place awaits; in a fresh grave beside David.