Page 118 of My Dark Divine
Disgust churns in my stomach as I watch him struggle. He mutters something that sounds like a prayer. Just moments ago, he was begging me to end this, and now he’s desperately trying to reach God or whatever he believes in, hoping for salvation.I’ve dealt with a lot of people in my life, a lot of assholes, but nothing like this. He’s the most pathetic excuse for a man I’ve ever seen, and of everyone I’ve killed, he deserves hours of torture the most—he and the other fucker I plan to have fun with today.
“A part of me wishes she were here.” My voice softens as I picture her face, feeling the warmth of her touch still sparking along my skin—a comforting nudge to stay steady and follow the plan. “That part wants to hand her the knife or a gun and watch her do to you everything you deserve, to see the anger she would unleash on you.”
I step closer to his right hand, my gaze settling on the ropes binding him just a little below his wrist. “But my girl has endured enough violence. She’s the kind of woman who deserves others to do the dirty work, you know?”
As I bring the tip of the butcher knife to his hand, he squeals like a pig, kicking his legs and struggling against the ropes.
“I’m just making sure she’ll never feel the imprint of your touch on her again.”
With that, I drive the knife into his flesh, slowly plunging it in. His high-pitched screams are grating, but I focus on the task at hand. The blade sticks against the bone, so I press harder, ensuring he feels every moment. I hear the satisfying crack, and when I reach the edge of the chair arm, I pull the knife away to examine my work.
It’s perfectly symmetrical. Good.
Blood flows in thick streams, coating his skin along with the severed hand until no clean spot remains, but that won’t be an issue. I’ll clean both of them up before placing them in the box.
His voice fades to nothing as I shift my focus to his other hand and repeat the process. Slowly, methodically, I sever it, and halfway through, he blacks out. I finish, then double-checkto make sure everything looks symmetrical before pressing the button to activate the defibrillator.
Electricity jolts through his frame, but he doesn’t wake up. I try again and again, but his eyes stay shut, his body still.
Fuck. I was hoping to spend more time with him. A pang of frustration twists in my stomach, sharpening the guilt that I know will never fade. I didn’t know Venetia back then, and I couldn’t do anything to help her, but the thought fucking haunts me. I keep trying to remember what I was doing during that time, but the memories are blurred—a chaotic mess clouded by drugs.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep picturing her—a teenager, alone in her room, trying to piece together what happened and why she’s in pain.
Christ. I’d be ready to die if it meant erasing her memories of the past. But that’s not possible. It’s not realistic.
The only thing I can do for her—the least I can do—is track down the last one and enjoy the same satisfaction I just had with Logan.
Then, I’ll go back to her, carrying the presents in my hands.
I’m a burning ember against the cool silence of the moon, the scorching sensation cascading through every fiber of my body, cutting through the dense haze of sleep. As my eyes squeeze away the blurred darkness, I open them and find the source of my fire.
His ice-blue gaze pierces through the shadows like moonlit glass as he leans against my doorframe. Tendrils of fear coil around me, sinking into the pit of my stomach. I stare back at him, frozen, as he detaches from the doorframe and stalks toward me. Words churn on the tip of my tongue—I want to call his name, to ask questions—but they never leave my lips. My eyes narrow when I notice the small boxes in his hands.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, settling onto my bed. The mattress sinks beneath his weight as I try to discern what he’s holding. “You were sleeping so heavily, I thought you wouldn’t notice me.”
I remain silent for a moment, my mind still foggy with sleep. “W-what is this?” I ask, rubbing a hand across my face to dispel the last remnants of the haze. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Can I turn on a light?” he asks, his voice laced with caution. I nod, though uncertainty lingers within me. I’m unsure whether I truly want him to proceed. Fear still holds me captive, a heavy weight that his presence causes.
It’s the kind of fear that makes me want to run, hoping he’ll catch me again, to feel the thrill that is as painful as it is blissful.
As he switches on the bright light by the nightstand, I squint, the harsh glow burning my eyes. I reach out for the top box and take it from his hands. My gaze sweeps across the surface, and I blink several times to ensure I’m not imagining things. I glance to the side, seeing the same on the second box, and realize that I’m not hallucinating. Each of them has a name scrawled in white marker on top.
LoganandJoseph.
As my hand closes around the edge of Logan’s box and I begin to open it, the weight in my gut twists sharply. The moment I see the contents, sleep evaporates, replaced by an unsettling clarity.
Severed hands.
‘I can still feel their touch on me.’
In disbelief, I open the second box and see the same sight—equally cut and clean, not a stain of blood or grime on them.
The warmth begins in my lower belly, a simmering fire that spirals up, igniting my heart with a million burning pinpricks. I close my eyes, surrendering to the heat, basking in its delicious intensity.
West did this. For me. It’s not the first time he’s done something completely insane for my sake, but this time feels different—too personal. I’ve never opened up about what happened to anyone in my life, and frankly, after sharing everything with him, I expected him to be disgusted by me. Instead, he offered nothing but support.
And what he did feels like… love. Yes, a love tainted by sickness, twisted and depraved, just like everything about us.
