He goes still.
“Look at the girl you said wouldn’t survive. Look at the liability still fucking standing when you said I would get myself killed for following my intuition. Look at the problem you told Owen to cut out,” I repeat quietly.
His breathing changes.
“Do I look dead to you?” I ask.
His mouth opens, like he’s trying to find the words to say. I keep going.
“You watched usbleedfor you,” I say. “You watched us tear ourselves apart so your corridors stayed clean on paper. You watched him fall apart for five years and then signed off on his death like it was line item clearance. And youslept. You slept atnight. You went home. You ate. You lived. You don’tdeservethat comfortable life. Not after what you did.”
He swallows.
“For years,” I whisper, “I thought you were the nightmare. I thought you were the thing I’d never get free of. I thought you’d haunt me forever.”
I smile, and it feels different than the one I gave Marcus. It feels…final.
“I’m not haunted anymore,” I tell him. “Iamthe haunting.”
He stares at me. And then I watch it. That flicker. That first flash in his eyes — fear that he’s no longer in control.
That’s the shift—the crack.That’swhat I wanted. Not his screaming. Not his apology. That.
I lower my voice. “Say his name,” I whisper.
Damien blinks. “What—”
“Owen,” I say. “Say his name.”
His throat works.
“Ember—”
“Say. His. Name.”
A heartbeat passes between us. Then two. Then, forced and hoarse, he finally says his name. “Owen.”
My eyes sting. Not with weakness. With rage.
“That’s right,” I breathe. “Remember that name. Because it’s the name of the person who sealed your fate. This is yourreckoning.”
He’s shaking now. Just at the edges. In his hands. In the way his shoulders pull against the restraints like he can muscle his way out of what’s already happened.
I straighten.
My heart is hammering so loud I can feel it in my teeth. My lungs are burning, like I’ve been holding my breath for years and only just remembered how to draw air.
I take the knife and I punch him in the gut with it. Over and over—until blood pools around my hands and down his body. I lose count of how many times. I lose count of how many times he begs. I lose myself in ending him. In reclaiming vengeance for the brother stolen from me. Vengeance for the innocence I lost. And that’s a fucked up sort of beauty I never thought I’d find.
Behind me, it’s silent. No one moves. No one interrupts. No one tries to soothe me or stop me or take this from me.
For the first time in my life, five men stand behind me and let me finish something without stepping in front of me to do it “for my own good.”
That hits harder than anything else tonight.
When it’s over, Damien is quiet, too.
That’s how I leave them.
