Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

ASHER

I should’ve been more careful.

That’s my first thought when I hear the crunch of boots on snow behind me. It’s a reminder that I’m not as invincible as I think. But then again, careful isn’t fun, is it? If I was careful, I wouldn’t have the rush I get from this—getting to play the game. Committing the sins my parents always expected of me, watching people crumble. That’s the kind of high I live for now.

The second thought? If he’s stupid enough to follow, he deserves what’s coming. Loose ends aren’t messy—they’re a chance to tie up everything in a neat, bloody bow. There’s always someone lurking around, thinking they can stop the inevitable.

But when it comes to me, they’re never right.

The sound of frantic footsteps catches up to me. His breath comes in short, sharp bursts, puffing out in the cold night air. His footsteps echo, panicked, like they know they’re getting closer to their own demise.

I stop mid-step, letting him see my silhouette framed by the moonlight. The stillness is intentional. I want him to think he’s caught me off guard, that he has some kind of control over this situation. That’s how it always starts—the false sense of confidence before everything goes to shit.

I expect nothing less from this piece of shit.

He freezes for a moment, then tries to step back. Fucker is probably hoping he can turn around and run, but he’s too slow. Too predictable. Rats always run forward, even when they know the trap is waiting.

“What’s the matter?” I call over my shoulder, my voice light and playful, deliberately soft. “You lost, friend?”

I don’t need to look at him to know his eyes are wide with fear, his breath shallow. It’s exactly what I want to hear. The desperation .

“You’re sick, man!” His voice shakes, but there’s anger in it, a spark of self-righteousness that grates on my nerves. “You’re damn well deserving of rotting in the deepest pits of hell.”

I turn slowly, the crunch of snow beneath my boots echoing in the cold night air. The moonlight glints off his face, casting shadows that make his wide, terrified eyes seem almost unreal. His breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and I can see the fear dripping off him like sweat, freezing before it hits the ground. He’s trembling, but there’s a defiance in him—one that makes me smile.

I take a step closer, my voice low and deliberate. “Burn in hell, huh?” I chuckle darkly, letting the words hang between us. “You’re upset because you think you have the power to damn me. But what you don’t realize is… hell’s a place for those who lose control. And I, my friend, have never been more in control than I am right now.”

His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles turning white. I can see the muscles in his neck straining under the weight of his rage. It’s pathetic.

“I saw you,” he snarls, his voice raw with accusation. “You fucking killed Marcus. You drowned him, held him under the water like it was nothing!”

I grin. A slow, wicked curve of my lips. “Because it was.”

The words hit him like a slap, his expression twisting in a way that’s both horrifying and… satisfying. There it is—fear, disbelief, and disgust all rolled into one. “You’re insane!” he spits, his voice cracking under the weight of what he’s just realized.

“No,” I say, tilting my head again, letting the edge of my smile widen. “Just thorough.”

I take a step forward, and his eyes bulge. His chest heaves. He knows what comes next. He knows this is the end of the line. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

He stumbles back, but I don’t let him go far. I close the distance between us, fast and decisive.

“I’m going to the cops,” he snaps, his voice trembling, a mix of fear and defiance leaking through. “You’re done. You think you can do this and just walk away?”

I let out a laugh, cold and sharp, like glass breaking. “Walk away? Buddy, I’m planning a whole parade. But go ahead. Tell them Alex did it. See how far that gets you.”

He pulls out his phone, fingers shaking as he starts recording, the screen lighting up with his shaky image. “I’m going to make sure they know everything,” he says, his voice filled with a desperate hope.

The look on his face is almost pathetic as he thinks that’s his salvation.

I step closer, a slow grin curling at the corner of my mouth. “You think that’s going to save you?” I ask, my voice dripping with amusement.

His confusion deepens, his brow furrowing as he stares at the screen, trying to make sense of the situation. But he doesn’t realize what I know—that at this hour, in this darkness, there’s no way anyone will be able to tell me apart from my brother.

I move closer, the shadows swallowing me, and lean in just close enough for him to hear my next words, my tone as smooth as silk but carrying a dangerous edge.

“You should’ve thought this through a little more,” I whisper, my smile widening as I slowly pull the ski mask over my head, revealing my face to him in the dim light. “You’re recording a ghost.”

“Alex?” He mutters the name like it’s a whisper, like a prayer.

There it is.

I can see the exact moment the pieces click together in his mind. His eyes widen, darting over my face, my frame.

“You... Holy shit, you’re—”

It feels so damn good to finally reveal myself. To let him see me for who I really am, even though he has no idea I’m not my twin. I can see the realization dawn in his eyes, the betrayal running deep.

“Alex,” I finish for him, my voice mocking the reverence he’s clearly trying to show. “That’s right. The golden boy, the good son, the saint of Holly Grove.” I laugh. It’s not a joyful sound. “Bet you didn’t know I had it in me, huh?”

He looks as if he’s about to argue, but the crack in his voice gives him away.

“It can’t be,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it anymore. He’s grasping at straws.

“Oh, no. It’s true,” I say, my voice laced with venom. “I, Alex fucking Adams killed Marcus. I snapped. Poor fucking me, finally breaking under all the pressure and weight of always being so goddamn perfect.”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to make sense of everything I’m saying. It’s almost pathetic. He takes another step back, stumbling.

“No, no, this—this doesn’t make sense. Alex wouldn’t do this. He’s... He’s not like you .”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s sharp, loud, and echoes off the trees. I step forward, closing the gap. My breath mixes with the cold night air, a cloud of steam coming from my mouth as I lean in close, just inches from his ear.

“That’s the best part, isn’t it?” I whisper, the words cutting through the space between us like a knife. “Nobody would ever think it was me.” I lean in closer. “Except it was.”

His mouth opens, and a choked gasp escapes him, but no words follow. The silence is deafening.

“You’re fucking lying,” he says again, but the panic in his voice gives him away. He knows the truth now, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

I snap. I can feel it building inside of me, the anger, the thrill of the chase, the power. I let him lunge at me, but I’m ready for it. I let him land one solid punch, the pain blooming across my cheek in a way that only makes me smile wider. I lick the blood from my lip, savoring the taste of it.

“Nice,” I say, cracking my neck, my hands loosening and tightening with anticipation. “My turn.”

I drive my fist into his gut, hard and fast. The air leaves his lungs in a violent gasp, his body jerking from the impact. He stumbles backward but doesn’t fall. I don’t let him. I grab the collar of his jacket, yanking him close, my nose brushing against his ear.

“For thine is the kingdom,” I whisper, a mockery of reverence. The words spill from me like a fucking chant.

I slam my forehead into his face. The sound of crunching cartilage fills the air, and he screams. Blood pours down his face like a waterfall, hot and sticky.

“Forever and ever, amen,” I whisper, pulling the knife from my belt. I don’t need to look at it. The feel of the cold steel in my hand is enough.

The fight is over. He’s over.

I straddle him, pinning him down to the snowy ground with one knee, pressing my weight onto his chest. He thrashes beneath me, hands grasping at my arm, but he’s weak, his movements slow and desperate.

The knife rises and then falls.

With each strike, the blade sinks deeper and quicker. His screams dissolve into wet gurgles as blood pours from his wounds, coating the snow around us. My movements are precise, measured, each cut satisfying in its brutality.

Fuck, this feels good.

When I finally stop, my arms ache, my chest is heaving, and the snow around us is painted a deep crimson color. He twitches once, his body spasming, and then goes still. I sit back, panting, as I let the weight of what just happened settle over me. The cold air feels sharp in my lungs, but it doesn’t touch the fire burning in my chest.

I glance down at his face. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s betrayal. There’s no mistaking it. He thought he stood a chance. Thought he could stop me from ending his pathetic life.

Pathetic.

I grin as a sudden rustling draws my attention, the sound sharp in the still night. My head snaps toward it, and I spot a squirrel darting up the trunk of a tree, its tail flicking nervously. Curious, I approach the base of the tree and pause, my gaze falling on something unexpected—a saw, propped haphazardly against the trunk.

The teeth of the blade gleam faintly in the moonlight, the edges worn but sharp enough to do the job. No doubt, it was left behind by one of the families who came here today, eager to chop down their perfect Christmas tree.

Hell yes.

A slow, deliberate smile stretches across my face as an idea takes root. This is too perfect. The kind of opportunity you can’t plan for but that makes the whole thing sweeter. I wrap my hand around the saw’s handle, the rough wood cool beneath my palm, and lift it.

The thought of what’s to come sets my pulse racing. The art of this isn’t just in the blood—it’s in the precision, the creativity. And now, I have the perfect tool to elevate the moment.

I start sawing through his wrist, each pass of the blade slicing through flesh and tendon with a satisfying crunch. The wetness of his blood, thick and warm, coats my hands as I work. His body twitches again, the last remnants of life flickering out of him, but this fucker is far beyond saving now. No amount of pleading or remorse can bring him back from the edge he’s pushed himself to.

When I finally sever the hand from the wrist, I hold it up to the light. The severed hand dangles loosely from my grip, fingers splayed out like a grotesque offering to dear old daddy’s precious God who’s watching.

The hand is the perfect fucking gift.

It’s exactly what I needed.

“Thanks for the gift, dude,” I murmur, my voice low and dripping with satisfaction as I lift the severed hand higher, tilting it just so the moonlight catches the pale skin and crimson edges. It’s almost poetic, in a twisted, macabre way—a testament to what I’ve become, what I’ve always been.

This is it. The perfect offering, the ultimate declaration. Sloan, my sweet, na?ve doe, will know exactly who it is from the moment she opens it. No more shadows. No more playing the “good son”. No more hiding behind a mask. After tonight, she’ll see me—really see me—for who I am.

And she’ll accept me. How could she not? After all, she’s been part of this game from the start. Every step, every move, every choice she made led her to this moment. To me.

The thought of her unwrapping the box sends a thrill through me. I can already picture her face—the way her eyes will widen, not in fear, but in understanding. She’ll finally see the truth. She’ll understand the lengths I’ve gone to for her, the sacrifices I’ve made. This is love, raw and unfiltered, stripped of pretense.

I chuckle, low and dark, running my thumb over the cold, lifeless fingers. “No more secrets, Sloan,” I whisper, almost to myself. “After tonight, there’s nothing to hide. You’ll know me—every piece of me. And you’ll love me for it.”

I stand, brushing the snow from my knees, and take a moment to admire the scene before me. The blood, dark and rich, already soaks into the ground, its crimson hue staining the pristine white snow like a grotesque work of art. The body lies there, lifeless and discarded, as though it had never mattered in the first place. Everything is exactly as it fucking should be.

But I’m not one to leave loose ends.

I bend down, grabbing the poor fuck’s phone with the video of Alex , ending the recording before tucking it into my pocket. I pull Alex’s phone from my other pocket, and toss it to the crimson snow next to the body. After all, I have no use for it anymore and if the video evidence isn’t enough, finding my pathetic twin’s phone on the dead guy's body pretty much seals his conviction. Especially with him being MIA. People will just assume he ran. Took off to avoid a murder charge on top of his ungodly sins.

I reach for a nearby branch and sweep it across the blood-slicked snow, masking the worst of the carnage. Then, methodically, I start shoveling handfuls of fresh snow over the body, the icy cold numbing my fingers as I work. The snow piles up quickly, burying the lifeless form in a pristine white shroud. Layer by layer, I erase the evidence, entombing him beneath the wintry blanket until the ground looks undisturbed once more.

I step back, surveying my work. The scene now looks untouched, peaceful even with the freshly fallen snow.

Perfectly hidden, perfectly forgotten. Just like he deserves.

But there’s one last thing to do.

I glance toward the trail, knowing the gift shop isn’t far. My pulse quickens as I move, feet crunching against the snow with hurried steps. The cold bites at my face as I tuck the severed hands into my pockets, but I barely notice, too focused on getting this shit done and getting to the church.

When I reach it, the contrast is almost laughable. The gift shop glows warm and inviting, decked out with garlands and twinkling lights, as if mocking the horrors I just left a few steps away from their door. Inside, shelves are lined with bright ribbons, holiday trinkets, and neatly stacked boxes waiting to hold something special. Something unforgettable.

I tuck the ski mask into my back pocket before pushing open the door, the faint jingle of a bell breaking the eerie silence of the night. The air inside is warm and smells faintly of cinnamon. It’s offensively cheerful, but perfect. Just the place to find what I need to make this gift as memorable as possible.

“Evening, Alex. We’re just about to close,” an old woman calls from behind the counter, her voice weary but polite.

“No problem,” I reply smoothly, flashing a disarming smile. “I’ll be quick.” My tone is light, casual—nothing to draw attention, nothing to linger in her mind after I’m gone.

Warm light spills from the fake holiday candles spread out around the store, casting a golden glow on the small space.

I head straight for the display of gift boxes, the red and green foil paper shining obnoxiously under the twinkling lights. My eye catches on a shelf containing dark, sleek boxes. Perfect . I grab the biggest one and pair it with a spool of thick black ribbon sitting on the counter nearby.

Dropping both items onto the counter, I offer the old woman another easy smile as I fish a few bills from my pocket.

“Just these,” I say, sliding the money across.

She rings me up with a polite nod. “Merry Christmas, and say hi to your parents for me,” she offers with a faint smile, her voice tired but genuine.

“Right, of course. You, too,” I reply, my tone almost cheerful as I pick up the bag. “Have a great night.”

As I leave the shop, the bell jingling behind me, I can’t help but laugh. The thought of Sloan opening that box, her sweet doe eyes widening in horror when she sees the contents, is almost too much to bear. The image plays over and over in my mind, each time becoming more vivid, more real. She’ll get it. She’ll finally understand the lengths I’m willing to go to when it comes to protecting her, us .

I circle around to the side of the building, out of sight of any prying eyes. The cold bites at my skin, but it doesn’t bother me. This is where the real work begins. I crouch down under the dim light of a single bulb, the glow casting long shadows against the brick wall.

The hand fits perfectly inside the box, the severed wrist pressing against the bottom like it was made for it. I press the lid down, feeling the cold, slick surface of the skin as I arrange it just right. Satisfied, I grab the wide black ribbon I just bought. It’s shiny, it’s sleek, and it’s exactly what I need.

I wrap the ribbon around the box with meticulous care, tying it into a big, elaborate bow that’s just a little too perfect. The end result is absurd, and that’s exactly why it’s so fitting. A festive facade for something far darker lurking inside.

Standing back, I admire my work under the moonlight. It’s beautiful in its grotesque absurdity. A perfect little nightmare, wrapped in Christmas cheer. A gift no one could ever forget, no matter how much they might want to.

In just a few minutes, she’ll learn that this was never Alex’s fucking game. It’s mine from the moment she opened that tiny black box.

When I reach the church, the back door creaks slightly as I push it open. The smell hits me first—wood polish and old books, with a faint undercurrent of stale cigar smoke.

My father’s office hasn’t changed. The same heavy oak desk, the same leather armchair. The same pictures lining the walls, all of them starring Alex.

Not a single one of me.

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to move on. None of that matters. Not anymore.

The church is silent, bathed in the golden glow of candlelight.

Just outside my father’s office I hear the door creak open.

Sloan’s here. She’s late—two minutes.

Game over.