Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

RHETT

T he cold night air is thick with the dank smell of decay. My breath puffs out in little clouds as I pull Emily's lifeless body across the grass, the damp earth squelching beneath her as I drag her along. Her once-vibrant clothes are now stained with dirt and blood, and I grunt with effort as I drag her toward the hay bales piled next to my girl's shed. The remnants of her once glorious Halloween decor.

The set up she put on full display, just for me.

Each pull on Emily's lifeless corpse across the ground sends a shiver through the grass, her body leaving a dark trail behind her.

The moonlight casts eerie shadows over the scene as I work.

I knew the moment my girl lost her control that Emily would meet the fate she deserved, and while this might not be her first kill, it's one that needs to be remembered.

It's special .

I maneuver the bales closer, their rough, yellowed edges pressing against my hands. I kneel beside Emily's stiffening body and begin my work. The bales of hay are coarse and dry as I tear open the first bale, the straw spilling out like golden worms along the dark grass.

Carefully, I start stuffing her clothes with the hay. Clothes Cara dug out of the back of her closet and was willing to part with, since my girl ripped her dress to shreds. I force handfuls of straw into her shirt, pushing it deep into the fabric until it bulges grotesquely. The hay sticks and scratches against the inside of her clothes, making a rasping sound as it forces its way in. Her pants get the same treatment, hay stuffed down the legs, creating a crude and lumpy shape.

I pack the hay tightly, making sure it fills every crevice.

Standing, I look down at my newest art project, but something is off. It feels incomplete. A mischievous smirk plays on my lips as an idea comes to mind.

Her face remains exposed, pale, and lifeless under the cold moonlight. Grabbing her hair, I tilt her head back toward me, forcing her empty eyes in my direction. I stare down at Emily's neck, the jagged wound my girl carved into her flesh with that broken wine glass still glistening under the dim moonlight. It's a mess─nasty and raw. The edges torn to shreds. It's not a clean slice like a knife would leave. No, this is brutal. The glass didn't just cut her; it tore through her throat like a savage broken promise, shredding skin and muscle with relentless cruelty.

Knowing my girl did this and finding myself curious of what else she's capable of has my cock hard and craving her.

The rest of Emily's features are frozen in a vacant expression, mouth slightly agape, as if caught in a silent scream. The once-soft skin of her cheeks is now mottled with dirt, blood and bruising.

Gripping her chin with one hand, I force her mouth open. It takes a bit of muscle as the early stages of rigor mortis have begun to set in. With my free hand, I grab a handful of hay and shove it into the opening of her mouth, packing it tightly until it bulges grotesquely.

The straw sticks out like a gaping, grotesque smile.

I chuckle before continuing.

I smother her eyes with more hay, forcing her eyeballs to the back of her head and the straw into the empty sockets until they are nearly obscured.

I step back, admiring my handiwork. Emily's body, now grotesquely transformed, is bound and twisted into a nightmarish scarecrow. Her once-human form is distorted and stuffed with hay, her face a hollow, sinister mask. I revel in the sight—there's something deeply satisfying about turning her into this macabre creation, a dark, twisted art project.

I'm starting to really enjoy creating.

I head to the shed, drawn by the promise of more tools to perfect my grim masterpiece. The musty scent hits me as I push through the creaky door, and I sift through the cluttered shelves with a practiced hand. My fingers curl around a coil of rough, thick rope, its texture coarse and unyielding. I find a box of rusted nails, their sharp edges glinting ominously in the dim light, and a few old wooden beams.

Fucking perfect.

This shit is going to be fucking great.

Returning to my work, I carefully thread the rope through the loops in the wooden beams I've set up before I drive the nails into the wood with deliberate force, pinning the rope and securing Emily's distorted, hay-stuffed body to the frame. The more I look, the more I relish the sight. Her final transformation into an unholy custodian is complete, a grotesque warning for anyone who dares to cross my little nightmare.

The perfect fucking guardian for Jim's backyard.

I drag Emily's lifeless body across the yard, the sodden ground squelching beneath her as I pull her towards Jim's small vegetable garden. The moonlight catches the glint of the rusted nails and the coarse rope still clutched in my hands. Each pull sends her limbs swinging through the air.

I reach the garden and its neatly tended rows of winter vegetables. Using all my strength, I shove the wooden beam into the soft, moist soil of the garden, forcing it deep into the earth. The beam sinks with a satisfying resistance, the ground giving way under its weight until it stands firm and upright, and my art project rises amidst the rows of carrots and cabbages.

With the beam anchored securely, I adjust Emily's body, positioning her so that she stands—more or less—erect in the middle of the garden. The coarse rope holds her tightly to the beam, her distorted, hay-stuffed form resembling a grotesque figure against the serene backdrop of the vegetable patch.

From the window, the old man's dog, Gary, watches with a mixture of curiosity and unease, his eyes reflecting the dim light as he observes the transformation of his once-peaceful yard into a scene of dark artistry. I step back, savoring the sight. Emily is no longer merely a corpse; she's become a chilling statement, a silent witness to the consequences of what happens when you cross my little nightmare.

I leave Emily standing in the garden to rot like the garbage she is. Was . The night air is thick with the smell of decay, but I push it from my mind as I head back to the house. Each step is lighter, my satisfaction palpable.

I've truly outdone myself this time.

Turning back toward the house, I see my girl on the porch, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze is a mix of amusement and frustration. She's growing accustomed to these morbid tasks.

"You finished?" she asks, her eyebrow arched in curiosity.

"Yeah," I reply, dusting off my hands. I grab my own bag, slinging it over my shoulder. "Let's lock up."

We move through the house one last time, making sure everything is in place. The doors are locked, the windows sealed. It's like we're burying our past here—the ghosts, the memories, the blood.

The only thing I'm taking with me is her.

She locks the front door with a soft click and turns to me, her eyes searching mine. "Where are we going? You still haven't told me anything."

I smirk, shaking my head. "It's a surprise."

She frowns, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. "I need more than that."

I pull her close, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Trust me. You're gonna love it."

She huffs, but her arms circle around me, and I feel her tension slip away. We walk toward the bike parked under the dark sky, its matte black frame gleaming under the streetlights. I hand her the helmet, and she puts it on without another word.

Such a good little nightmare.

The bike rumbles to life, its sound vibrating through my bones as I straddle it. Everything else falls away—the weight of the past, the shadow of the cartel. It's just us now, the open road, and a future that's fucking ours to shape.

Mine and hers.

My girl settles behind me, her arms wrapping tightly around my waist as I twist the throttle, pulling out onto the road. The wind bites at my skin, sharp and cold, but it's nothing compared to the chill that's been inside me for years.

However, that coldness is finally gone.

Demarko is dead. My father's blood has been avenged. But the Don Leon cartel won't stop looking for us—they never will. I know that. They'll hunt us down until they know we're dead, until they have the revenge that I just spent years seeking. They will eventually find us, but even when they do, I'll never stop protecting her. My little nightmare.

I've made sure we'll be safe for at least a while and I won't stop until I'm certain we can finally live without fear.

Ireland. That's where we're headed. A new life, new identities—all arranged by my boss. He's set up everything for us: new papers, new names, a house in Derry. Far enough from the cartel to give us a fighting chance.

I know she's nervous, but I want this to be a surprise.

Derry is perfect for my girl. Halloween's a big deal there, the kind of place where the holiday never really ends. She'll fucking love it. Especially all the old and gothic style buildings, it's right up her alley. She'll be in her element out there. I've even bought her a tattoo shop so she doesn't have to give up what she loves to do.

And the best coffee machines, so she won't have to deal with any more baristas trying to flirt with what's mine.

No one's getting close to my girl. Not on my watch.

Cara's arms tighten around me, her head pressing against my back. She's quiet, but I know she's still curious. Still wondering about my plans.

"You really aren't gonna tell me?" she asks, her voice barely audible over the wind.

"Not yet," I reply, smirking. "But, you'll find out soon enough."

She laughs softly, a sound that warms me through the cold night. It's been a long time since I felt this—someone by my side who isn't just passing through. For the first time in years, I can breathe. Now that she's done fighting me, fighting us , I see a real fucking future.

One where we're free to be exactly who we are, together .

My little nightmare and me.