A perfect purgatory.
A gift.
Arsen’s gift.
He delivered Sterling to me the night I discharged from the hospital, dumped him on my cellar floor half-conscious and bleeding, and said only one thing:
“Handle it.”
And I did.
On record, Sterling died the night he tried to kill me. Killed by a single gunshot to the chest, body unrecoverable in the fire. A tragic loss. The former High Chancellor, mourned in a closed-door Council meeting for his leadership before he went rogue. Honored with fabricated speeches and falsified reports.
No Sovereign funeral. No ceremonial execution. No crowd to witness his noble end. Because there was nothing noble in him.
Arsen knew exactly what he was doing when he handed me the man who made me.
My father didn’t get a trial. He didn’t get honor. He didn’t get justice.
He gotme.
He groans. “Priest…please. End it. For the love of?—”
“Don’t say God. We both know He doesn’t come down here.”
He glares with what little strength he has left. “You’re a monster.”
“I know,” I say lightly. “But let’s be honest—you made me.”
His eyes flick away. Shame? Rage? Doesn’t matter. I stand and circle behind him, fingers tracing the back of the chair where the straps cut into his wrists.
“Want to hear something interesting?” I ask. “Arlo’s pregnant.”
His shoulders tighten.
“With twin boys.” There it is—the faint tremor of horror. I savor it. “Two heartbeats. Two new little monsters.Mymonsters.”
His voice breaks. “Don’t…don’t make them into you.”
“Oh, I won’t.” I crouch beside him again. “They’ll be better.Stronger. Me without all the fucking tics.”
He closes his eyes.
“But they will know justice,” I add quietly. “And they’ll know who bled for their future.” Sterling’s eyes snap open as I lean in. “I was seven years old when I made my first kill, Sterling. Seven. I had no father. No mercy. Just the pit. The hunger. Thetrainingyou had carved into me.”
He shakes his head violently. “Priest?—”
“I’ve decided that my sons’ first kill will be you. Whentheyturn seven.”
His whole body jerks, chains clanging. “You sick bastard! You can’t?—”
“You made me a killer before I could tie my shoes. This is tradition. A family heirloom.”
His voice turns hysterical. “Kill me now! Don’t do this. You can’t keep me down here for seven fucking years!”
I stand slowly, smoothing my tux jacket, adjusting the cuffs Arlo straightened earlier with soft, nervous hands.
He screams again, “Priest! End it! END IT! KILL ME!”
