She steps back to her father. He’s awake, barely, blood mixing with tears and saliva. His eyes are wild. He tries to speak, but his mouth is packed with cloth and tape.
She peels back the tape, slow, then rips it free. He howls, raw and guttural.
She kneels at his feet, so close he could kick her if he had the strength. She looks up, and the coldness is gone. There’s nothing there now but exhaustion and angst.
“Why,” she says, and it’s the only question she’s ever really cared about.
He gasps, sucks air, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “For you,” he says. “All of this was for you.”
She cocks her head. “Bullshit.”
He tries again, the words thick with pain. “The line. The legacy. If I didn’t—”
She cuts him off with a flick of the blade, just a nick across the knee, but it’s enough to make him yelp.
“No more legacies,” she says. “No more lines.”
She plunges the blade into his thigh again, buries it to the hilt, and twists. The scream is short, then ends in a whimper. She pulls the knife free and stands, “You always towered over me, wanting me a puddle at your feet. That will never happen again.” Then she pushes the blade through his shirt and into his heart before howling at the full moon and throwing the blade into the dirt. She wipes the spray of blood across her face and steps back, leaving him to bleed out on the post.
They’re all breaking, whoever is left. The screams are more animal than human now. The woods are alive with the sound of men who thought themselves untouchable discovering they are, in fact, prey.
Eve has Mr. Ellis pants down, his cock in her hand as she makes neat slices around the shaft before fileting it open like a fish and tossing it aside. She giggles and then slides the blade down both inner thighs, admiring how the skin splits and blood pours.
Bam is quiet now, his work done. He leans against a tree, eyes closed, breathing deep. He’s never looked so at peace.
I feel Amara beside me, her hand in mine, slick and warm. Pulling her into me, I kiss her forehead, then the line of blood on her jaw, and finally her lips. The taste is metallic, but I don’t care. She opens for me, hungry and helpless, and I want to fuck her right here, right now, in the dirt.
But there is still work to do.
There’s only one left.
The sack over his head is sucking in and out rapidly. His hands are tied around the pole, zip ties cutting into the vascular bulge. The veins are blue, skin red. He hasn’t pissed himself, yet, but the air stinks of sweat and expensive cologne.
He senses me. I know because his back straightens, his chest expands, and he raises his head like a prize steer about to be paraded through a ring. Even with his sight gone, he plays for an audience.
I step into his orbit. Every molecule of me vibrates with the thrill of this moment.
The others fall away. Amara is a shadow behind me, her own war won. The rest watch from a distance, content to let me perform the final act alone.
I reach for the sack and peel it back.
He blinks, then narrows his eyes. The skin around his mouth is raw, lips split from hours of tension.
I want him to see me. I want him to see what I’ve become.
I grip the tape over his mouth and tug, slow and incremental, savoring the way each millimeter tears from his face. He grunts, then glares. I remove the tape with the same patience he used to break me, one inch at a time.
The moment it’s off, he spits in my face.
The glob lands on my cheek, hot and viscous. I wipe it with my thumb, never breaking eye contact.
“You pathetic little shit,” he hisses, voice barely above a whisper. “You think this makes you a man?”
I smile, the way I was trained. “Not at all. I think it makes you a corpse.”
He tries to lunge, but the bindings hold. He grinds his teeth, lips pulled back in a snarl. There’s blood at the edge of his gums.
“You’ve never been worthy of the name,” he says. “You could have been a governor. Instead, you’re a fucking hood ornament.”
