by Abbie Roads
“Mac. I—”
His father pressed a button on the phone, and the sound vanished. He held the device up to his ear and spoke one word. “Proceed.”
Cain’s heart suddenly had that strange pins-and-needles feeling, like when he slept on his arm wrong and the thing fell asleep. It wasn’t the being asleep that hurt. It was the waking up that killed. The electrical pulses of nerves coming alive. And now his heart felt that exact way, like the epicenter to some great lightning storm that would crack the earth open.
“No!” Mercy yelled.
The word whipped through the air, startling him.
“You’re going to stop.” Mercy’s tone offered no room for argument. “Right now.”
Cain whipped around. She struggled to her knees, her face rigid with some emotion that resided somewhere between pain and anger. Her defiance was beautiful.
“Mercy.” He was next to her in a picosecond, reaching for her, needing to offer her what comfort he had to give, but she held her hand up against him. Blocking him.
He stopped, arms comically outstretched.
Realization hit him. She wasn’t in physical pain. Fuck. If only it were physical pain. They could overcome that. Bruises faded. Cuts healed. But this… He could almost see the armor she wore over herself. An armor that gave her strength and fearlessness.
She’d heard everything. Knew the deal his father wanted him to make.
“Leave Mac and your daughter alone, and we’ll give you what you want.” She looked so fragile and small kneeling on the floor next to him, but her voice carried no weakness, only determination.
His father contemplated her, gun in one hand, phone in the other, before he spoke. “Wait. I’ll call with further instructions.” He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket.
“Cain. Look at me.” Mercy’s voice trapped him. He didn’t want to look at her and see the look in her eyes, but he couldn’t deny her, even though he knew he wouldn’t survive.
It seemed like hours and days passed before his gaze finally found hers. And what he saw was even worse than he suspected. She grasped one of his hands in both of hers. “I can’t be the reason people you love die.”
“I love you.” The words slipped out before he could contain them, protect them from his father.
A brief spark of happiness lit her eyes, then drowned under her tears.
“My life—at the sacrifice of theirs—would be worthless. There are things I can live with and things I can’t. Don’t make me live with that guilt. Again. Not again.” Her tears hit the tipping point and overflowed. She rubbed them on the top of his hand.
If words were weapons, she’d just stabbed him, shot him, then detonated an explosive in his chest.
“No. No. Nonononono…” No other words existed. He couldn’t figure out how to say anything else.
He felt the hilt of a knife pressed into his free hand—his father handing him a blade. He wanted to drop the thing, to fling it across the room, but his fingers tightened around the heavy handle.
He could just jam the blade into his own throat. Taking the pussy way out sounded so damned appealing except for one thing. Mercy. He couldn’t leave her alone with his father. Cain would save his own death for after. Then he’d slice his own damned throat and be done with all of it. Just as she couldn’t live with Mac and Daught dying, he couldn’t live with killing her. Even if it’s what she wanted.
“I’m so sorry.” She spoke against his hand, her breath warm. “I’m sorry you have to do this. I’m sorry you’re in this situation. I’m sorry for all of it.”
It wasn’t her place to apologize. His fucking father should be the one apologizing.
Cain gave a futile look toward the man. His father stood with the gun aimed right at him, watching the exchange between them as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever witnessed. Cain wanted to lunge at him, attack him, tear his heart out and eat it raw for putting him and Mercy in this situation. But wanting was as far as it would go.
If he made a move toward the guy, a simple squeeze of the trigger and he could be taken down and then forced to watch as his father pleasured himself with Mercy’s suffering.
It came down to degrees of horror. Her quick death by his hand or her slow, painful suffering at his father’s hand.
“Cain, I need you to promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” He could deny her nothing. Even when she was asking for this.
“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself after.”
He swallowed, choked, coughed before he could speak. “Don’t take away the only way I can survive this.” His voice cracked, his eyes burned, and hot tears splashed down his cheeks.
“Promise me.” Her voice was firm. Her expression stern. “You have Mac. He loves you. He’ll understand this was my choice. He’s always been there for you, and he’ll be there for you after this.” She looked directly at his father and spoke in a clear, calm voice. “Do you promise if Cain does this, that Mac won’t be harmed?”
His father nodded once. “You have my word. MacNeil Anderson will not be harmed.” He sounded so solemn and pious.
Her eyes narrowed. “Can I trust you? Trust that you’re not lying?”
“I don’t lie. Ask my son.”
She looked to him for confirmation.
“He doesn’t lie,” Cain heard himself whisper.
“Okay. Then after…” She swallowed. “Promise me you won’t hurt yourself.” She squeezed his hand tight between her own.
He wanted to hate her for asking this of him, but he couldn’t find any hate. All he could see in front of him was regret and love. “I promise,” he whispered so softly he wasn’t certain she heard him until she nodded.
She reached for his knife hand. One by one, her fingers wrapped around his hand and moved the blade to press against her throat.
Her bloodshot eyes on him were more beautiful than the sky and ocean combined. Crystal-clear aquamarine. He wanted to dive into their depths and forget everything. Tears dripped down his face, tickling his skin as they skimmed down, down, down. A tear landed on her cheek, mingled with her own, and slid to the corner of her mouth. She licked the wetness.
They were exactly as the picture on the wall showed them. Exactly. It was sickening and beautiful at the same time.
She pressed his hand. Flesh yielded under the blade—horrible and astounding at the same time. Fat droplets of blood dribbled down her slender neck. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from the crimson. One thing his father had been right about—the allure of her blood was intoxicating.
He looked at his father. The man still held his gun aimed at Cain, but even he was slightly—just slightly—mesmerized by the sight of Mercy’s blood.
Cain forced the knife away from her neck, her hands fighting him the whole way, then bent over her, opened his mouth, and licked. She tasted salty, and sweet, and a bit like sunshine. He lapped upward until his tongue ran over the groove in her throat—the old scar put there by his father, then found the new puncture wound put there by him.
He knew how he looked to his father and knew how disgusted Mercy had to be, but he couldn’t help it. He filled his mouth with her blood, letting a nirvana of sensation wash through him. He swallowed her inside him, then whispered in her ear, “Forgive me.”
Chapter 21
In order to be found mentally incompetent to stand trial, an individual must not understand the illegality of his crimes. The vast majority of serial killers have been found to be mentally competent—they understood they were committing a crime and took measures to prevent themselves from being caught. Under this definition of competency, serial killers are as sane as you and me.
—E. J. Daniels, author of Mental: What Is Crazy?
“Forgive me.” Cain wasn’t sure what those words meant to him. To her.
Forgive me for wha
t I’ve done?
Forgive me for what I’m about to do?
He wanted time to take a hiatus. Wanted to be freeze-framed forever in this moment with his face pressed to Mercy’s throat and the taste of her on his tongue. Everything needed to stop right here—in the few seconds that existed before he committed murder. Once he crossed that threshold, there’d be no going back. He would be every bit his father’s son.
But time stopped for no one. Especially him.
He pressed a final kiss to Mercy’s throat and pulled back from her.
Her hand, still on his, repositioned the knife at her throat. Their eyes locked, but it was more than gazes colliding, it was a tangible sensation of joining, of being one. They clicked together like a key into a lock—neither serving a purpose without the other.
His world distilled down to its most essential element—awareness. An awareness of love and blood and the odd way they combined to make him into something…
Something different.
Something better.
Something worse.
Her fingers tightened around his hand and she pushed, forcing the blade into her skin. She was using his hand to slit her own throat, and it was wrong. So fucking wrong.
His stomach gave a shove against his esophagus and tried to come up his throat. The give of her flesh under the blade hurt him. That knife may as well have been skimming along his heart. In all his life and through eternity he’d never forget her willingness to sacrifice her life for him and Mac. If that wasn’t the definition of love, then love didn’t exist.
Blood rushed from the wound, cascading down her neck. He allowed himself to watch it just long enough to feel its exhilarating pull—knowing he wasn’t the only one snagged by the alluring sight.
Time warped, bent, and bulged like a wad of gum being blown in a bubble. Too many things happened at once. His brain couldn’t keep up with his body, or maybe his body couldn’t keep up with his brain. He shoved her back—away from the blade, ripping his knife hand out of her hold. “Run!” The word landed with a dull thud in the closed-up house.
For the first time in his life, he disobeyed his father. He charged the man.
His father stared at the space he and Mercy had occupied as if they were still there, as if Cain still had the knife to her throat, as if Cain were actually killing her.
The look on his father’s face said it all. Satisfaction and fucking fatherly pride. Something Cain had never seen before, but instantly recognized. The little boy inside him ate it up. Swallowed it whole and swelled with happiness.
But then his father’s gaze shifted, and the fragile bubble of time popped.
Then his father’s face transformed into the monster Cain knew too well.
“Don’t you—”
Reprimand tried to slap him back into complacency. Years ago, the tone, the volume would’ve been enough to have Cain cowering in the corner like a wounded animal.
But now—it only drove him harder. Cain had an advantage his sire didn’t.
Love.
He fucking loved Mercy and wasn’t going to kill her. Or let Mac be killed either. This was a life-and-death fight all right. Mac and Mercy’s life for the death of his father. The only bargain he’d make.
Ppgglll…
Sound exploded in his ears.
The gun. His father fired at him.
A bullet whizzed by his thigh, so close it kissed his jeans. His father could unload the whole clip into him. It didn’t matter. No words. No bullets. Not even Satan himself was going to stop Cain. He had only one purpose, one need: to kill.
Death was the only road to freedom. His father’s death.
His father aimed.
Ppgglll…
The impact wrenched Cain’s shoulder back, but he felt no pain. Only the odd sensation of invasion—like he had a massive splinter wedged into his skin. He kept going.
The world went quiet. Not a sound reached him, except for what was happening inside his body. Thumthumthumthum… His heart raced. His lungs sucked and released. Those were the only sounds in existence. In an odd way, they were comforting.
With the gun still aimed at him, Cain watched his father’s finger squeeze the trigger.
His quad locked. Only it wasn’t a muscle cramp. The bullet found a nice, tight little home in there. He stumbled, his leg not able to carry its weight. Funny, that time he hadn’t heard the gun.
His father easily stepped back, aimed. Cain stumbled forward another step. His father fired.
Pain, sharp as a lightning bolt, hit him in the thigh. His leg buckled and he fell, catching himself with his hands, still clutching the knife in his right hand. No fucking way he was going to let go of the blade. One way or another, that knife was going to be his salvation.
He tried to move his injured leg, willed the damned thing to work, but it hung off his body, limp as a wet towel.
He couldn’t grab a full breath. His insides trembled. He’d been shot three times and though he didn’t yet feel the pain of it, his body was sending frantic danger, danger, danger signals to his brain.
Cain trained his eyes on the floor like a defeated dog. Wasn’t hard.
“You think I didn’t know you’d try this? You think I don’t know how your mind works? Boy, I made you in my image. I know you. I own you.” His father walked up to him. “I created all of this. You. Her. Art. This world”—he opened his arms wide to indicate the house—“I am the author of its existence.
“I told you what would happen. Now you’re going watch every second of her suffering.” He knelt next to Cain, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head back to look him in the face. His scalp screamed. Funny how a little hair-pulling hurt worse than bullet wounds.
Cain closed his eyes.
“Don’t you hide from me. Open your eyes.”
Just like when he was a boy, he obeyed, but he couldn’t meet his sire’s stare.
“You better embrace suffering. Every second of her agony is caused by you. I catch you looking away while I work on her, and I’ll cut off her eyelids.”
Cain met his father’s gaze. Held it. Glimpsed the monster within himself shining in his father’s eyes.
And then slid the knife into his father’s femoral artery. Relief washed over him at the same time a volcano of warmth erupted over his hand and rained on the carpet. His father’s eyes widened. He jerked back, fell on his ass. Blood arced from the wound, hung suspended, then splattered against the carpet. His father clutched his inner thigh. Tried to control the gushing artery, but it was no use.
“You don’t know me, and you sure as fuck don’t own me.” Spit flew from Cain’s mouth.
His father raised the gun. Pointed it directly at Cain’s face.
Cain didn’t duck. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He expected this. His father’s arm fell to the ground. The man couldn’t kill his creation. Cain had banked on that.
He crawled the few feet to his father, dragging his leg behind him.
He set the knife down. Blood dripped from his hand as he reached into his father’s shirt pocket for the phone.
Silently, his father watched him.
Cain opened the phone, coating the thing with red. He found the last number dialed and waited while the phone rang.
“Yeah.” A man’s voice.
He dropped his tone. “Let him go.”
Silence.
For a full three seconds, Cain thought the voice on the other end knew it wasn’t his father.
“Your boy did it? You didn’t think he would.”
It wasn’t hard impersonating his father. He heard the man’s voice in all his nightmares. “He surprised me.”
“You just want me to let him go?”
“Yeah. Let him go. I’m a man of my word.”
“Will do. Call me when you need me again.”
“Count on it.” He disconnected the call and tossed the phone away from the mess of his father’s gore. Later. Much later, he’d figure out how to have the police track that number.
But right now he intended to finish what he’d started. Write The End to his father’s life.
His hand was steady as he picked up the knife, raised it high and plunged it into his father’s chest. The blade pierced bone and flesh. A grunt of mortal agony, then the wet noise of viscous fluid flowing.
His father’s eyes locked on to him. Admiration shining in the once lifeless depths. A blast of heat, hotter than a blue flame, burned under Cain’s skin. He realized he’d just given his father exactly what he wanted. He’d killed. He’d fucking killed.
“Did you fucking know? Did you plan this?” Had his father known all along this would be the outcome? He grabbed the guy by the shirt front and lifted his body, but he could already see that life had begun making its grand exit.
Part of him wanted the man to live. To prove to him that he wasn’t a killer. The other part…
Raw rage—the kind he never allowed himself to feel since it scared the shit out him—consumed him.
He ripped the hilt out of his father’s chest and raised the blade to stab him again. He wanted to feel his father’s blood spraying on his face, wanted to hear it splattering the walls and floor. He wanted his hands and body coated in the mess. He wanted to savage the corpse—and even that wouldn’t be enough to repay the lifetime of pain his father had inflicted on him and Mercy.
“Cain.” Mercy’s voice permeated the haze of hate he’d locked himself inside. She stood next to him, tears streaming down her cheeks, blood ringing the collar of her blouse.
He realized his arm was raised. Blade poised for another penetration, but with her watching, he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t.
The knife fell from his fingers. He shoved himself away from the body and scooted on his ass until a wall stopped him. He would’ve kept scooting for miles—away from his father’s body, away from Mercy—if that wall hadn’t been there.
