I guess he did when he put his own fucking blood in the blender.
Guess he’ll linger with me a little longer.
I press my palms against the tile, let the water run over my shoulders, and close my eyes.
Lucky’s voice from the hospital plays in my head—You deserve to end this.
It loops, over and over. Not violent, not vengeful. Just true.
I will. Phoenix’s breaths are numbered.
I wash my hair three times, scrubbing like I can erase the memory of his hand pinning me down. I scrub my skin until my scalp and skin are raw. Until I can’t tell what’s clean and what just hurts. Until all that’s left is me—stripped, pure, alive.
When I finally turn the water off, I feel ready.
I dress in silence, mentally running through my kill ritual. I dress automatically. Black jeans. Black tank. I brush out my hair, letting it air-dry into its loose waves. I don’t bother with makeup. Today is about being real and raw, and Phoenix will get me in exactly that form.
I slide on my rings, each one a small ward—silver for protection, obsidian for grounding, hematite for strength.
When I look in the mirror again, she’s gone—the girl who nearly died in the desert. What’s left is the witch who’s coming to collect.
When I walk out of the bedroom, Lucky is there in the kitchen, waiting.
“I’m ready,” I say simply.
He nods, dials a number, and holds the phone to his ear. Lucky gives whoever is on the other end the address of my shop and tells them to meet us there in five minutes.
The drive is quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional squeak of leather when Lucky’s hand tightens on the wheel. No words pass between us. The mental preparation when you know you’re about to kill someone is no small thing, and Lucky is obviously my perfect match that he understands this.
Lucky parks at the curb right in front of the shop. I don’t know how I’m going to transport a body in a little bit, but somehow, I know I don’t really need to worry about that right now.
Lucky kills the engine. “You’re ready?”
I nod once. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
Inside, the air smells like sandalwood and smoke. The front room is dim, warm, safe. The back room—where the real work happens—glows faintly from candlelight. Apparently, the Torviks know how to set a mood. And they make fast work.
Because there he is.
Phoenix is tied to the chair. Anders and Henrik stand on either side of him, arms crossed in a way that keeps Phoenix silent for the first time in his life. When we walk into the room, Lucky gives his father a clap on the shoulder.
“We’ve got it from here,” he says. “Thank you for handling him. Will you wait outside in the car for when it’s over?”
“Of course,” Anders says, glaring death at Phoenix, who won’t look Anders back in the eye. “Yell if you need any backup.”
“That won’t be needed,” I say. A familiar feeling of anticipation conflicted with calm washes over me. I’ve done this before, plenty of times. I know what to do. I know how to make him scream, how to make him confess. All that before stuff was the hard part. This? This right now is the reward.
Anders and Henrik nod and walk out the back door, closing it securely behind them, giving the three of us privacy.
I round the table, and finally, really look at Phoenix.
He’s a mess. He looks like he went into an MMA ring underqualified and underprepared. Blood crusts his lip. His nose is obviously broken, and deep bruises circle his eyes. He’s actuallycoveredin bruises, a rainbow of blue, yellow, and green.
Phoenix meets my eyes, but for the first time ever, he doesn’t have anything to say. And something is different when he looks at me this time. He’s always underestimated me. He’s never taken me seriously. He’s never respected what I am.
But it’s different tonight. And it’s not just because Lucky beat the shit out of him, or because the Torviks manhandled him into submission. He knows something about me now that he didn’t before.
I tried and failed multiple times to get to him. I nearly died.
