For a second, my heart stutters with renewed understanding, and then his leg sweeps out, knocking me to the ground. This time, he grips my ankles, pulling me beneath him. Instead of reaching for the gun, like he’s confident I won’t use it, he rips at the button of my jeans. The fabric gives way easily, exposing the flesh beneath.
I scream again, pushing at him, but he doesn’t budge as he nudges my thighs wider, making room for his grotesque frame. “You’ll wish you were dead when I’m finished with you,” he growls.
What he doesn’t know is he’s way too late for that. I’ve wished I was dead every day since I was fifteen.
But I won’t go down like this. I haven’t survived what I have to give up now—not for anyone.
If I’m going down, it’ll be on my own terms. “I said, get off me,” I whisper a final time, and as he raises his hate filled eyes to mine, I fire.
THIRTY-FOUR
RAFAEL SANTOS
November 30th, 2025
Something’s wrong.I can feel the crackle of electricity the second I turn up the driveway—an invisible string pulling me toward some unknown threat.
Did Valentina and McCrae find out who I am?
Is Valentina in danger?
It’s that thought that has me pressing the gas, the engine groaning from the weighted trailer behind me.
As I emerge through the last veil of trees, my stomach plummets. That car’s here,again; this time, the doors are open, and its mysterious driver’s gone. Also gone is McCrae’s motorcycle.
Is Valentina here alone, with this lurking stranger?
I don’t have time to digest how that thought alone fills me with more anxiety than finding out my brothers had died. Valentina’s somehow changed from a villain to someone I want to protect, cherish, even.
Slamming the truck in park, I hop to the ground and shout, “Valentina? Are you okay?” The silence that follows is deafening.
I race toward the open door of the car, the putrid smell of sweat and alcohol assaulting my nostrils before I even get near. As I peer inside, it’s obvious the person’s been living in here—there’s half eaten food and enough open bottles to fill a small fish pond. I also notice the wires dangling near the steering wheel.
But what do they want with Valentina?
“Valentina?” I shout again.
I jog around the side of the car, determined to find Valentina before it’s too late, and freeze as I find the tangled heap laying in the dirt. I stare at it—or rather, the woman covered in blood, hunched over the body.
Valentina’s shoulders shake, her hands displayed to the sky as the blood caked on them dries in the beating sun. Gasping for oxygen, I force my racing heart to quiet, focusing on the sounds of her breathing.
She’s crying—gut wrenching, silent sobs filled with so much sorrow, my knees threaten to buckle.
I’ve never seen her look more broken, more defeated, and I ache to soothe her pain.
“Valentina?” I say again, this time more hesitantly. I take a step toward her before I notice the gun, glittering in the sunlight, partially buried in the sand. Bloody fingerprints wrap the handle, and I know if I’d simply pick it up, I’d have enough to ruin her forever.
But the thought is as bitter as it is unsatisfying—I want to pick the gun up, but not to hold it against her. I want to hide it—burn it or bury it, whatever must be done to protect her.
I extend my hand, but she seems lost to her grief, her head shaking back and forth as she stares down helplessly at her hands. As my raging heart quiets further, I finally hear her.
“What have I done? What have I done?” Over and over, she repeats the sentiment.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, hunching down to be at her level.
She finally lifts her head, seeing me for the first time. When she does, I notice the marks already bruising her neck, collarbone, biceps. Each imprint’s clear—fingerprints so harsh and deep, they burst the precious flesh beneath.
My heart rages against my rib cage, this time out of fury. I whirl on the intruder, ready to kill them if she hasn’t finished the job. As I do, I feel a single, tentative finger run along my arm before it falls.
