Chapter Nine

Ty

The first light of dawn seeps through the mosaic window, casting a faint colourful glow across the room. I stand at the far side, watching her as she sleeps in the warm light, her face peaceful, her red hair glistening with every breath she takes. The morning softens her features in a way the firelight never did.

I tug a clean hoodie down my body and over my head, then shift slightly, bending into a crouch to tighten my laces. Midnight sneaks around my feet, her sleek black fur rubbing up against my legs, meowing softly.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you. You’re hungry,” I mumble, reaching down to run a hand along her back, feeling the vibration of her purr against my palm.

As I rise, Kitten stirs, her hand slipping out from under the blanket as her lashes flutter. I pause, one boot still unlaced, and watch her, almost captivated, the way her brows pinch as she glances around in confusion. She’s handling all this better than I expected, almost too well. Even in sleep, I can tell she’s keeping herself shielded, playing some deeper fucking game.

But I see through it. Those pleading, sky-blue eyes are like bait. She’s trying to figure me out, see what’s locked beneath the surface, just like any therapist would. She doesn’t know that what she’s after is something I’ve buried too deep, even for her to touch.

She’s not here for that. She’s not here to fix me. Whether she realizes it or not. There’s no breaking free—not from me, not from this. She can tell me everything I want to hear. Hell, she could let me fuck her violently like I want to, but I’m never letting her go.

I finish with my laces and straighten, then head toward her, my heavy boots making her shoot up on her elbows, watching me carefully through tired eyes. I stop by her feet and lift my fingers.

“Get up.” I say dryly.

She sighs, throwing the blanket off her and I can’t help but look at how her body moves. Memories of last night flood through my deranged mind. How I placed that knife on her neck and made her dry hump my hard cock through my jeans.

She fucking loved it.

Raven has a dark side to her that she likes to keep hidden, but I felt her hunger in that moment, even as she tries to cover it up with those careful eyes and that faultless composure. I saw it, the way she unraveled, to the point where I ended up busting in my fucking jeans just from the sight of her.

Fuck, it took everything inside me to walk away. She wants me. She just doesn’t want to admit it, but that’s where the fun lies. I don’t just want her to want me; I want her to fucking crave me. Then when she finally submits, if I make it that far, I’m going to screw that perfect cunt so savagely, she’ll be raw from the ferocity. She’ll never want to be without me.

My pulse thrums harder as I watch her adjust her dress, her tits jiggling beneath the thin silk, little nipples stiff from the cold. I have to look away, my jaw clenching as I start to feel the blood rushing into my cock, making it swell against the tight fabric.

I force myself to stay in control, but my thoughts drift to all the twisted fantasies I can’t shake—the thought of her riding me, breasts bouncing as she sinks onto every inch of my dick repeatedly. The way she looks coated in blood. How she would look naked and coated in my blood. I shake my head, fighting the images that push at the edge of my mind, threatening to tear through the last shred of restraint I’ve got left. She’s there, right in front of me, ready to take. To fucking destroy.

Once she’s finally got herself together, I catch her wrist, tugging her along behind me. I grab my backpack and toss it into the crawl space, lowering myself in backward, dragging her down with me. She resists for a moment, but eventually, she’s forced to follow me, her breaths quick and shallow in the tight passage.

When we reach the other side, I climb out first, extending a hand to pull her through. Her gaze darts around, taking in the empty corners of this house in the morning light. I know every creak of these old floors, every shadow, but I refuse to let myself take in the memories that lie within the walls. She trails behind me, Midnight padding in her quiet, unbothered way until I open a bathroom door and tug Raven inside.

I unzip my bag, pulling out one of my oversized hoodies, and hand it to her. She takes it, brows knitting in confusion as I study her. She hesitates, but finally slips it on, the fabric swallowing her frame until it drowns out her perfect curves.

“Sit down there,” I order, pointing to the radiator bolted to the wall and her wide eyes snap up to mine, flashing with something between defiance and fear.

“Now, Raven.” My tone hardens and she swallows, glancing down, then slowly moves toward the radiator and sits, pressing herself back until the cold iron is against her spine. I crouch and reach into my bag again, pulling out the cuffs and her eyes expand as she realizes what’s happening, shaking her head frantically.

“No, Ty!” she pleads, panic rising in her voice, but I ignore her, clamping the cuff onto her wrist with a determined click, locking her to the radiator.

“I’ll be back. I’ve got some things to do.”

“You can’t just leave me here!” she snaps, her scowl deepening.

“Yes, I fucking can—and I will.” I lean in close, my face inches from hers. “And you can scream all you want, beautiful girl, but no one will hear you. Not here.”

I place a bottle of water down, keeping my gaze locked on her. “Toilet’s right there. Water. What more do you fucking need?”

She glares at me, her voice slipping from desperate to something more angry. “For you to let me go, maybe? You can’t keep this up!”

“Can’t I?” I reply coolly, raising an eyebrow. “You’re already with me, Raven.”

“I need to go to work in two days.. I need to…”

“I told you, you’re not going back to that fucking asylum, Kitten.” I growl. “You will NEVER be reaching that top floor. It’s fucking dangerous!”

Her bottom lip quivers, “You keep treating me like some fucking fragile little thing! You don’t know me at all!” She screams in my face.

I lean in close to her face, my teeth biting, “You’re my fragile little thing. You want insanity? To be surrounded by the darkness? You’ve got it. Right here, with me. Get the fuck used to it!”

Tears well up in her pretty blue eyes, and for a second, she looks so small after everything I’ve put her through. I reach out to her face almost instinctively, but she flinches back, pressing into the cold radiator as if it could protect her from me.

“Just go,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

I watch her, studying the fear, the resentment, and the realization setting into her face. There’s no remorse in me, no moment of second thoughts. Her feelings are fucking irrelevant, just collateral damage in a game I’ve always played for my own twisted satisfaction. She’s exactly where I want her—at my mercy, with nothing but me and the walls that hold her.

I slowly stand upright, turn and walk toward the door, closing it behind me.

…

After striding through the woods that surround the mansion, smoking a cigarette, I find myself in the graveyard. I trail over the overgrowth, weaving between tombstones, my eyes set on one in the distance. As I draw nearer, my palms begin to sweat inside my gloves, my heart beating a faster.

When I’m close enough, I step in front of it, my eyes glued to the grave. I crouch, my hand reaching out, swiping the moss that’s covered both of their names, the stone old and neglected.

Here lies Finn and Olivia Easton.. Loving Father and Mo…

I growl and shift my eyes before I lose my shit.

“Loving.” I scoff, then lift my cigarette, stubbing it out over the “loving” part, the embers blowing in the mild breeze.

This is the first time I’ve come to their grave. I always knew it was here, tucked away in this shithole, forgotten. They apparently wanted to be buried in the small town they grew up in—the town that shaped them, twisted them into what they were.

I lift my head, taking in the gloomy surroundings. Thick trees loom over the graveyard, their bare branches clawing at the gray sky. The air is damp, the kind that clings to your skin and seeps into your bones. It’s a fitting place for them—silent, bleak, lifeless.

“You’re all cozy where you wanted to be put, but what about her? Where was she put?” I murmur the question like I might get an answer, my eyes slowly returning to their head stone. “All you had to do was tell me… Tell me the fucking truth for once in you goddamn lives. Now look. You can’t even fucking speak. Feel. You were killed by your own kid.”

A dark chuckle escapes, hollow, humorless while I shake my head. “You both ended up right where you belong. In hell. And I’ll meet you there soon enough, I’m sure.”

Memories fromthat morningflicker through my head, vivid and haunting. The last time I saw them. I’ve never spoken a word about it—not to anyone. Yet it’s the clearest thing lodged in the shadows of my mind, a scar I’ve buried but never let heal. The truth of what happened. Why I did what I did, why I was pushed to the point of no return. No one would ever understand. They’d look at me with blank eyes, dismissing it, branding me a fucking liar. Even if they did believe me, they’d turn away, shielding themselves from the truth that’s too dark for confront.

Power—it rules this fucking world, quietly wrapping itself around everything. The root of all evil, twisting and bending people to its will. It doesn’t just command. It fucking consumes. And once it touches you, you’re no longer free.

Never. Free.

I’ve seen first-hand of how fucked this world truly is. I was just a kid when I was dragged into the cruel clutches of it, forced to see the things no child should ever witness. I remember the cold rooms where dirty secrets were kept, the hushed voices, the fear that clung to the atmosphere like smoke. There were places hidden from daylight, buried in the sinister underbelly of society, where people traded innocence like currency.

I’d seen it all: the hollow eyes of kids who’d forgotten what it was to feel safe, the bruises, the whispers, the screams, the scars hidden beneath long sleeves. I learned quickly that people will do anything to protect themselves, to bury the things they’d rather pretend don’t exist.

And the worst part? Nobody wanted to see it. Nobody wanted to admit what was really happening. They still don’t. Nothing has changed in fifteen long fucking years, if anything it’s gotten worse.

But at least I can say I cleared two of them off these fucking streets—my parents. They may have given me life, but they poisoned it, shattered it, all for business deals, supremacy, their satanic rituals, and whatever sick, perverted thrill they could squeeze from it. They were supposed to be my protectors, my fucking foundation. Instead, they sold me the fuck out, wrapped me up in a realm of darkness and fucking sacrifices.

Killing them wasn’t just revenge—it was a purge. My parents didn’t just ruin my life; they left scars on this world, on so many others, fed into a system that was hurting innocent children and maybe I can’t undo the damage they caused, but at least I made sure they’d never hurt another soul again.

But I’m not finished. Oh, no. My parents were just the beginning. Every last one of them that rotates that ring, all those sick, disgusting cunts—they’re next. They think they’re safe. They think I’ve forgotten, or I’ll be quiet, but they can’t hide behind their wealth, comfortably tucked away in their dark little corners any longer.

I’m coming for them, one by fucking one. They’ll all burn in hell, and I’ll be the one to light the fucking fire.

My eyes move over my parents’ grave one last time, slowly and carefully before I decide to stand. I glance over the cemetery until my gaze settles on Raven’s house. I think about going over there to collect some of her stuff until I see that young woman from the bar trying to knock at her door. I raise an eyebrow, careless before turning around and strolling toward the woods again.

…

Walking deeper into the forest, I begin counting as I pass the trees, each number anchoring me to a memory buried somewhere deep in the chaos of my mind. Steps, distances, landmarks—it all had to line up. When I come across a tree, warped and bending like a silent sentinel, I stop dead in my tracks.

“The south side... seven inches deep,” I mutter, my thoughts scrambling to piece together the events of that day, the fragments of a plan set in motion long before the blood ever spilled.

Circling the tree, I toss my bag onto the muddy ground and dig through it, pulling out a small garden shovel. The blade bites into the wet earth, and I dig relentlessly. The tension rises until the sound of metal scraping against something solid breaks through the air.

“Fucking bingo,” I whisper, a cold smile tugging at my lips.

I drop the shovel and claw at the soil with my hands, pushing it aside until the shape of a black box emerges from the earth. My fingers hook into the edges, and with one final tug, I free it from its muddy tomb. Glancing around the deserted woods to make sure I’m still alone, I return my attention to the box, swiping away the dirt embedded in the engravings.

The rusted lock snaps open with a creak, and I slowly peel the lid back. My head dips closer, my breath fogging in the crisp air as my eyes narrow, taking in the contents. Stacks of money, glittering jewelry, diamonds—anything of value that I could stash away to secure some of my future.

Premeditated murder? Absolutely. But no one ever knew that.

Two weeks before that harrowing night, I started planning. As soon as she went missing, my thoughts spiralled into an abyss, each one darker than the last, until they distorted into something evil. Killing them was set in stone. Every sign pointed to her murder. Hurt me in the most horrific ways all you want, but not her. So, I started collecting. Planning. Preparing.

This box was more than just a stash—it was insurance. I knew if I killed them, I’d be left with nothing. It wasn’t greed that drove me; it was common sense. Without them, I’d be on my own, with no one to fall back on, no resources to fund the path I was carving for myself. A path of blood, vengeance, and control. To be honest I feel fucking disgusted using their shit money, but I will get great pleasure spending it for my warpath and disappoint them even more from beyond the grave.

I push some of the stuff inside the box aside until my fingers brush against an old, worn photo. I gently pull it out, the edges frayed, and the colors faded. But It’s us. Together. Back when we were kids.

My Adam’s apple bobs as I stare down at it, a lump forming in my throat that’s almost impossible to swallow. I haven’t seen her face in over fifteen years. The memories of what she looked like had already started to blur. But here she is, pulling me into the past. Frozen in time. Innocent. Untouched by the horrors that came later.

My chest tenses, the edges of my vision growing misty. The burn in my eyes is unexpected, a harsh reminder that there’s still some piece of me—some weak, human part—that refuses to die, no matter how much darkness I drown myself in. And that piece? It’s why I’m fucking doing all of this. It’s why I can’t stop, won’t stop.

I take a deep inhale and place the photo gently back into the box, my hands lingering for a moment before slamming the lid shut. The sound echoes through the empty woods, snapping me back to the present. I shove the box deep into my bag, zipping it up with jerky movements before slinging it over my shoulder.

After kicking the dirt back into the hole, ensuring it looks untouched, I head back toward the mansion. The air feels heavier as the towering structure looms in the distance. As I pass it, my gaze flicks upward briefly, to where Raven is locked inside. It’s eerily silent—no cries, no protests. Just stillness.

I keep moving, my boots crunching against the gravel and orange leaves until I reach the backyard. The garden shed sits there like a forgotten room, its wooden frame weathered by time and neglect.

Shoving my shoulder hard against the stiff door, I push it open, the hinges groaning. Dust dances in the thin slivers of light streaming through the cracks. The air smells of damp wood and rust. My eyes scan the space, taking in the shelves cluttered with old tools, and a few cobweb-covered bottles. Then my gaze lands on it.

An axe. A beautiful fucking axe.

It’s mounted on the wall, standing out amongst the clutter like a masterpiece in a gallery. The handle is long, black, and smooth—polished wood with a grip around it that’s both sturdy and elegant. The blade is deadly sharp and silver as it glints in the light.

I step forward, reaching out with both hands. When my fingers curl around the handle, it feels natural, almost too natural. I lift it from its place on the wall and test its weight, letting the cool steel rest in my palms, adjusting my hold as I swing it lightly. Perfect balance. Perfect weapon.

…

After hours of walking deep through woods, dragging the heavy axe beside me, it’s starting to get dark, and I end up at the edge of where I need to be. The steel mill stands worn but functional, its chimneys releasing thin wisps of smoke into the fading sky. Rust streaks its framework, and some metal sheets hang loose, but lights flicker in a few windows, giving a sign that works are inside, along with the occasional clang of metal echoing faintly.

Hundreds of shipping containers are stacked in uneven rows across the lot, their paint chipped and faded, but signs of use are clear—greasy marks on handles and chains coiled nearby. A few forklifts sit idle, dirty but newish.

The rocky shoreline to my right is loud with crashing waves, the low sunset reflecting off the water in streaks of orange. Figures move here and there by the mill, their movements purposeful but quiet, giving the place a guarded, almost secretive atmosphere. It’s not abandoned—it’s a place running on intent.

I did wonder if he was still here, and it seems he is. This place ain’t new to me. My father brought me here once or twice—too many times for a child to see things no child should. But it wasn’t anything new. I’d seen a lot worse by that point. At first glance it might seem just like an ordinary steel mill, still clinging to life with its running machines and faint signs of production. But I know better. This isn’t just a fucking steel mill. It’s a front in this town, a carefully constructed screen hiding the truth of what’s really going on.

This is a hub—a place where people are trafficked. Kids specifically, smuggled in or out, passing through like fucking cargo. They leave the machines running, masking the horrors that unfold when darkness falls. This is just one link in a chain, one stop in a network stretching far beyond this place.

And tonight, I’m here for a fucking reason. I need answers—a location and a date. The man running this shithole has the information I’m looking for, and when I’m done with him, he won’t have a choice but to give it to me.

I drop my backpack onto the ground behind the tree, yanking my sweaty hoodie over my head and tossing it inside, leaving me shirtless. With a steady hand, I pull my black ski mask over my head and reach for my axe, strengthening my hold on the handle. Scanning the area, I count the workers—four, maybe five—scattered around to keep the machines running. And him. The man I came for. He’s inside, no doubt. Waiting patiently for the next load of kids to arrive so he can make a hefty wad of cash.

My eyes harden, a calmness settling over me as I step out from the shadows. The weight of the axe swings at my side, every stride measured and slow as I cross the lot carelessly.

When I reach the metal stairs along the side of the building, I climb swiftly but quietly, the sound of my boots against the steel lost in the industrial buzz. At the top, I find the rusted door and my fingers curl around the handle.

As I step onto the upper platform walkway, the scene below stretches out like a mechanical labyrinth. My eyes sweep the area, mentally calculating where everything is placed. Where they could run. Where everything could go wrong or right. A massive molten furnace dominates one corner, the heat strong, even from where I’m standing. Chains hang from overhead steel beams, swaying faintly. The air is thick and harsh, a mix of burning metal and grease.

I glance around the platform, every shadow shifting under the glow of lights. No movement. I step forward cautiously, my boots rattling faintly against the steel walkway. Then, without warning, the door to my right creaks open and a man almost steps through.

My body reacts on instinct and without warning, I turn quickly with my axe high above my head, my grasp strong, and my focus locks onto the unlucky cunt in front of me. His face barely registers shock before the blade slams down with savage force. The nauseating crunch of bone echoes in my ears as the axe cleaves deep into his skull, splitting halfway through his head in one brutal motion.

Hot blood sprays, coating my skin, igniting the darkness I crave inside me as I let out a guttural snarl. I shift my grasp on the handle, teeth gritted, and yank downward with raw, violent strength. The sound is wet and vile—a grotesque symphony of tearing flesh and splintering bone until it’s through the middle of his neck. His skull doesn’t just crack; it parts wide open like a fucking peeled banana, exposing his brain inside.

His body collapses in a lifeless heap as soon as I yank my axe free with a grunt, blood pooling at my feet. I inhale deeply, getting ready for more, when a faint gasp cuts through the buzz of the steel mill. My head snaps to the side eerily, murderous eyes narrowing as I spot another victim standing there, some distance away.

He’s frozen for a split second before panic takes over and he stumbles backward, boots skidding on the platform. He turns and sprints like his life depends on it—because it fucking does.

There’s a crazed axe murderer on the loose and he’s about to end his fucking life.

My gaze calmly follows him, head tilted to the side as he bolts, his target clear: the bright, looming alarm button on the wall and my brow arches.

Just as his arm stretches out, I raise my axe high above my head, blood dripping from its steel edge and streaking down my arms. I swing it back, then hurl it forward with every ounce of my strength and the weapon spins, slicing through the air with a deadly accuracy. The crack is deafening when it strikes, smashing into his back with a repulsive thump. His spine crumples inward under the power, and the impact sends him flying across the platform like a fucking rag doll.

I stride toward him as a malicious smirk stretches across my lips. Well, this is fucking fun.

I take out one or two more, their screams fading as quickly as they began. The adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my focus, and that’s when I finally see him.

He steps out of a room across the platform, oblivious to the carnage I’ve created, a pair of heavy-duty headphones clamped over his ears. He’s humming to himself, bobbing his head slightly, the fool completely unaware of the blood-soaked nightmare surrounding him. My lips curl into a cruel grin as I grip my axe tighter, my fingers sticky with gore as I move toward him.

But as I close the distance, something shifts in the air—he senses it. A sudden primal instinct kicks in, and the motherfuck glances back over his shoulder. His face twists into a mask of terror as his eyes land on me, drenched from head to toe in crimson before he suddenly runs.

I don’t even think; my body reacts on autopilot. Impulse takes over, and I dash after him, my boots thundering against the platform as I close the gap.

He’s fast, desperate, but not fast enough.

As soon as I’m within striking distance, I shift my aim and swing the axe low, slicing cleanly across his Achilles tendon.

The blade bites deep, tearing through it like butter and he lets out a blood-curdling scream. It sends him crashing forward, sprawling onto his stomach before he skids across the blood-slicked metal, leaving a trail of red in his wake.

I slow my pace, enjoying the moment, watching as he writhes and claws at the ground, trying to pull himself forward like a wounded creature.

“Time and date of the next sacrifice, cunt. That’s all I want,” I rasp, my voice hoarse, my lungs heavy and suffocating in this hot atmosphere.

His body jerks, and with a sudden movement, he flips onto his back. A glint catches my eye — something in his trembling hand. When I realize it’s a gun, my reflexes take over again and I swing the axe, severing his hand at the wrist. His scream spikes higher, more animal than human, but I barely register it.

The bastard is already wasting my fucking time.

I kick the gun and his hand away, sending it skidding off the edge of the platform. The furnace looms low beside us, its molten heart a swirling pit of fiery rage, and a torturous idea flickers in my mind.

Above, a thick, rusted chain hangs, its metal groaning with every creak. To my right, the button sits, glowing a faint red, as if it too can sense the horror about to unfold. Without hesitation, I slam my palm down on it, and the chain descends.

When it’s within my reach, I yank it down and pull it tight around his wounded ankle before connecting the hook and his cries grow more dramatic, which only pleases me. As soon as I’m finished, I stand upright, watching as his body squirms beneath me. The button calls to me again, and I press it with a loud smack. The machine groans to life, and the chain begins to drag him upward. His screams scrape against my sanity, but they only fuel the chaos that bubbles inside me.

“You’ve got around twenty seconds to give me that time and date, Bob, or your foot will rip apart, and you’ll end up in that molten hell below,” I shout over the roar of the machinery and his frantic cries.

He dangles helplessly in the air, blood pouring from the stump of his severed arm and I almost think I’ve gone too fucking far, so far that I might not even get the information.

The moment he hovers over the molten pit, I hit the button again to stop the chain, watching the terror flood his face, his eyes wide with the realization of what’s to come.

His life is a thread, and I’m holding the fucking scissors.

“The White Woods!” he wheezes, barely able to form the words. I lean over the railing, holding the metal hard, my eyes cold as I let the name settle in. I know that place. But I need more.

“Time and date, motherfucker,” I growl, almost purring with sadistic pleasure.

“Two days! Midnight!” he screams, “Please! Help me!”

His face contorts as he begins to feel the strain on his shredded ankle. I watch the tear deepen, the flesh giving way under the pressure.

All I do is raise an unbothered eyebrow and wait.

The seconds stretch, and then, just as the Achilles tendon snaps with a revolting, final tear, his body jerks as he screams one last time. And then, he plunges. The final scream is gradually swallowed by the furnace’s roar as he plummets into the molten below. His body disintegrates almost instantly, the sound of him melting alive a haunting melody that echoes in my mind long after it fades.

Another one sent to hell.