Epilogue - Caleb
Blood for Blood hammers through the speakers as i turn down the long driveway to my log mansion. Same song. Same ritual. Different body.
Tall firs and pines press in from both sides, snow-heavy branches creating a tunnel of white and shadow. My hands are steady on the wheel, not even a hint of shaking after the adrenaline rush. Just the familiar hum of satisfaction that settles in after I balance the scales.
The barn appears through the trees. I pull the Jeep inside, kill the engine, and enjoy the way the silence drops like a curtain.
My clothes are soaked through with blood. Not my blood, it's never my blood. I peel off the thermal shirt, the jeans, the boots. the furnace fire roars to life when I open the grate and toss it all in. I watch the fabric catch, curl, then blacken. The smoke disappearing through the chimney vent.
Evidence erased.
The cold hits me the second I step outside. Naked. Minus fifteen according to the thermometer mounted on the barn wall. Snow crunches under my bare feet as my breath spews out in front of me in long, white clouds.
I don't feel the cold. Not really. It's just data. Temperature. Wind chill. Irrelevant.
Steam rises from the surface of he hot tub in thick coils. I climb in and sink down to my shoulders. The water stings every inch of exposed skin. I close my eyes. Let the heat dissolve the blood residue, the gun oil, the smell of fear and piss from the warehouse.
He earned it. They always do.
I replay a little of it, but mostly I'm thinking abouther.
I'm always thinking about her.
So I get out and walk back inside through the mudroom. My cock is half-hard from the temperature shift. I ignore it. Shower in the master bath using the handheld to blast away anything the hot tub missed. Dry off, then pull on grey sweatpants and a black thermal henley.
Downstairs I grab a whiskey and my laptop and hit the couch. The screen glows to life when I open it—sixteen camera feeds load automatically.
Scarletta sits cross-legged inside the glamping tent I set up, laptop balanced on her thighs, wearing my fucking clothes.
Black Harvard t-shirt. Black sweatpants. She wears them at least once a week.
Every time I see that shirt stretched across her tits, something tightens in my chest. Possession mixed with satisfaction. She's marked herself with me and doesn't even realize it. Or maybe she does.
I take a long pull of whiskey and set the glass down.
She never disabled the cameras. Never changed her passwords. Never followed a single instruction I gave her for removing the surveillance.
I discovered this three days after I dropped her off. Opened the feeds expecting static or black screens—evidence she'dyanked the hardware, wiped the software, reclaimed her privacy like any sane person would.
Instead I found her bent over her laptop in that tent, typing.
Wearing my shirt.
I pulled my cock out right then. Came all over my hand watching her existence continue like I hadn't just fucked her unconscious, drugged her, and confessed to murder.
It's been seven weeks. She hasn't touched the cameras once. Hasn't even tried to disable the keystroke hack. Hasn't even changed her fucking bank account password.
I don't understand it. Pleased, yes. Intrigued, absolutely. Aroused every single night when I load these feeds and watch her pretend I'm not watching.
But what's her motive?
Does she want me to keep watching? Is this permission without words? Or is she performing now, aware of the audience, giving me a show?
She's different than she was before the auction. Cleaner. Her hair's shorter—professional cut, layered around her face. New clothes that actually fit instead of drowning her. I've seen her paint her nails twice. Makeup appears some days, subtle but present.
Still writes, but the frantic pace is gone. Before, she'd lose herself for six, eight, ten hours straight. Emerge only to piss, or shove food in her mouth, or fuck herself with her fingers before diving back in.
Now she writes in controlled bursts. Two hours, break. Three hours, break.
