With a choked grunt, he pushes himself up, teeth clenched against the pain. His movements are sluggish, but his eyes flick between us, calculating. There’s something sick in his expression, something twisted in the way he smiles despite the blood soaking his shirt.
“I told you, Mia.” His voice is hoarse, but the venom is still there. “You were always mine.”
Mia tightens her grip on the pistol. “No,” she says, her voice steady despite everything. “I was never yours.”
His eyes darken, jaw tightening. Then his fingers twitch.
I see it before it happens. His other hand creeps toward his ankle—toward the second weapon strapped there.
“Gun!” I shout, lunging forward.
But Mia is faster.
The second gunshot splits the air like a thunderclap.
Jason jolts, his entire body locking up before he staggers back, his knees giving out. He hits the ground hard, legs kicking out once, twice, before finally going still.
Silence.
No one breathes.
The scent of gunpowder lingers in the air, mixing with sweat, dirt, and the coppery tang of blood. The forest is too quiet. No wind, no birds, as if even nature is waiting.
Mia’s gun hangs loosely in her hands now. She stares down at Jason, her face unreadable.
Asher moves first. He crouches down beside Jason’s body, pressing two fingers to his neck. A long pause, then a sharp exhale. “Still breathing.”
Mia stands above him, her face pale, her breathing ragged. The gun hangs loose in her hand, the weight of the moment settling into her bones.
Damon steps forward, his eyes cold. He kneels beside Jason, turning him on his back, checking the wound, pressing down just enough to make him choke on a pained wheeze.
“He won’t last long,” Damon says flatly. His voice carries no emotion, no anger, just fact. A soldier assessing a dying enemy.
Jason coughs weakly, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His gaze flickers, unfocused.
Asher crosses his arms. “We could end it now.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t look at Asher or Damon; I look at Mia.
Because this decision isn’t ours to make.
Mia trembles as she stares down at Jason, at the man who has haunted her life for years, the man who stole her safety, her peace, who terrorized her and the girls just for the sick pleasure of control.
This should be it. The moment she finally takes it all back.
Damon hands her the gun. “Make the call.”
Mia’s breath catches. Her fingers flex around the grip, the weight of the weapon heavy in her grasp.
She stares at Jason—this pathetic, gasping excuse for a man. The monster that held her life in his hands for so long.
And then she lowers the gun.
“I can’t,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I won’t be a monster like him.”
Damon watches her for a long moment, then nods. He understands. We all do.
None of us argue.
