Her tears soak into my shirt, but I can’t meet her eyes.
We were toxic.
We were inches from collapse.
Has she really forgotten that—or did the monsters she met during captivity make our broken love look like salvation?
Either way, the truth is set; I belong to Nell. No grey areas.
She is my obsession. My catalyst. My ruin.
“You’ll always mean something to me, Kyla. But I’m not in love with you anymore. And deep down, you’re not in love with me either. Not really. Just get some sleep—we’ll talk more when you’ve had rest.”
She doesn’t respond. Just breathes. Still clinging to me.
But eventually, her breathing steadies.
I gently unravel her fingers from my chest and slip away, quiet as the guilt pressing into my spine.
Nell’s waiting on the sofa, curled up with Boomerang, stroking his fur like she didn’t just maim a man into oblivion.
I study her face, the way she watches the TV so peacefully.
God, I hope this doesn’t haunt her.
I wanted to shield her from death. From all the trauma.
But she seems… startlingly okay.
“Sorry, trouble,” I murmur, sliding beside her, nuzzling into the hollow between her collarbone and jaw.
“That’s okay,” she exhales. Her smile is soft, full of warmth that melts straight into me. “If you need help clearing up, I’m available.”
“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day,” I chuckle, cupping her cheek. “Me and Talia will handle it. I just need to make sure you’re okay before I head back out.”
She leans into me, her head against my shoulder. Her eyes flutter closed for a brief moment.
“I’m fine.”
God, she’s my little fighter.
My trouble.
Between the two of us, we heave the mangled corpse into the trailer—limbs twisted, bloodied flesh clinging to bone in places where skin used to be. The body thuds against the metal floor with a grim finality.
Talia had already swept the area like the seasoned phantom she is—tire tracks smeared, footprints brushed away, blood pooled and buried beneath layers of moss. The only remnants left to deal with are him… and the stick Nell used to carve her justice, still crusted with hair, bits of flesh stubbornly clinging to the grain.
I swear, this woman has an affinity for wood.
It’s unnerving, yet borderline poetic.
But I’ll give her credit. What she does with a broken branch is more precise than most men could manage with a blade.
“If he knew who she was,” Talia says, voice cold and clipped, “we’re out of time.”
I nod. No need to echo what’s already carved into my brain.
This attack didn’t just rattle our nerves—it accelerated everything. We were working with weeks. Now? Days.
