“You closed the door on me,” I say slowly. His eyes meet mine. “You walked away because you wanted him satisfied. You were fine with him using me in our kitchen. In my grandmother’s—”
My throat locks. It cinches shut so hard I can’t push breath through it, much less words.
Cassian peels off the generator housing and comes to stand behind me. He says nothing, just places one palm at the small of my back and leaves it there.
I drag a breath in, slow.
I look at him.
The emptiness fills another inch.
Then I turn back to Mark.
“You killed me to get rid of the problem. A quiet little solution. No witness. All the money to yourself. You could even blame your mafia connections on your escapist wife if it came to that.”
Mark tries to speak. The strap makes sure he does it slow. “You don’t—”
Talon barks out a single laugh. “Buddy, she remembers the stitching on the pillowcase,” he says. “Just tell the goddamn truth. Don’t provoke us.”
Cassian rubs his palm once. The room changes temperature, and Mark’s eyes flinch to track it. His gaze drags over our little constellation. That’s when Nathaniel snaps his nitrile glove into place.
“Say it,” he suggests, voice mild. “Before your adrenaline drops and the truth gets harder to find.”
Mark stares at the phone, then at me. Sweat beads bright along his hairline. His throat jumps. “You’re asking me to confess—what? A hallucination? You’re not even—”
I lean into Cassian’s hand. My laugh is small and real.
“Pain, come out,” I say into the hum of the generator.
The light over the basement door seethes once, twice, and the air dips a few degrees. Pain steps from the shadow like a ghost that’s decided it finally wants to be seen.
Mark flinches. He cannot see him, but he canfeelhim. The wrongness of the moment.
“Do you want to give him a show?” Pain murmurs, looking at me.
“I’m done being considered weak.”
Pain tips his head, listening to the shake in the air. Then he presses his palm to mine. Just a moment. But a moment is enough. Power flares steady through me, more controlled than it has ever been.
“Give him what he deserves,” he says, and nods once.
I turn back to Mark.
“Want to know what death feels like, my dear ex-husband?”
The generator hum drops. The bulb overhead flickers again and again.
Power… It really is a heady thing.
“Breathe in,” I say.
The strap at Mark’s throat creaks. He tries. Nothing comes.
I curl my invisible hand around his airway.
“Death is a cold, cold thing,” I whisper.
I squeeze.
