Page 35 of Two Sides of Sin

“Julian, take me home,” I choked out through the tears. “Please… just take me home.”

“I’ve got you, June bug,” he whispered, his own voice cracking as he pulled me into the gore-stained sanctuary of his arms. “I’ve got you.”

Through my tear-blurred eyes, I looked past Julian’s shoulder, searching for the other half of my nightmare. Cain was still standing there, draped in shadows. He stood frozen and silent.

Just watching us.

His expression was so pathologically cold, that it disturbed me more than the murder Julian had just committed. There was no remorse in his eyes for the girl he’d almost lost, and none for the brother he’d just betrayed. There was only a hollow, narcissistic void—a look that told me he wasn’t finished with me yet. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 26

Cain

The scene was a mess.

I walked a few paces behind them, my eyes locked on the uneven swing of Julian’s gait. He was carrying her like a trophy, his hands still slick with that boy’s blood—staining the back of her shirt. It was disorganised. Impulsive. Messy. Typical Julian.

Every few seconds, June’s head would pop over his shoulder, her tear-blurred eyes finding mine in the dark. Every time she looked at me, her fingers dug deeper into Julian’s neck, clutching him as if he were a life raft and I was the shark circling beneath.

My fists clenched at my sides. It wasn’t jealousy—it was the irritating dynamic of it all. He was playing the hero, and she was playing the victim, and I was the ghost forced to trail behind their pathetic, blood-soaked parade.

“So,” I said, my voice cutting through the sound of crunching twigs and dry leaves. “Your car or mine?”

“I didn’t drive,” Julian grunted, not even bothering to look back. “I walked.”

I paused, a cold curl of disbelief settling in my gut. “From the manor?”

He didn’t respond, he just kept walking, his breathing heavy and laboured.

“You’ve lost the plot, you know that,” I muttered to his back, my voice low and dangerous.

He remained silent.

“Fine. Guess we’ll take my car.”

My Pontiac Firebird sat at the edge of the road, a sleek, black blade against the gravel. I got behind the wheel, the interior smelling of expensive leather and the sharp, clean scent of my own order. The moment they climbed in—Julian dragging her into the back seat to play protector—the smell of iron invaded my sanctuary.

I shifted into gear and slammed my foot down. The tyres screamed, gravel flying like shrapnel against the undercarriage as I tore away from that cursed clearing.

“Slow down, Cain,” Julian snapped from the back. I saw his reflection in the rearview mirror—he looked like a rabid dog, his face smeared with red. He reached forward, his hand thudding against the back of my seat. “Slow the fuck down. She’s going to be sick.”

I didn’t blink. I didn’t even check the speedometer. “Try that again,” I whispered, my voice a flat, dead line, “and I’ll send us flying into the nearest tree. At least then everyone will be quiet.”

The rest of the drive was a symphony of Julian’s frantic whispers and the melodious sound of June’s shallow, panicked breathing. I watched them in the mirror—a tangled, bloody knot of codependency. It was sickening.

“Just drop us off at June’s,” Julian ordered as we hit the outskirts of town. “I’m staying the night with her.”

I caught his eye in the glass, my lip curling into a phantom of a smirk. The narcissist in me wanted to laugh at the predictability of it.

“Of course you are,” I drawled, the words dripping with ice. What a hero.

Chapter 27

Julian

I’m sitting in the armchair by her window, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the dim evening light. She’s finally asleep, but it’s a fitful, restless thing. She asked me to stay while she slept—a small, whispered plea that nearly broke what was left of my heart. I was going to stay anyway, whether she wanted me here or not, but having her actually want me around again feels like a reprieve I don’t deserve.

Every time I close my eyes, images of that piece of shit’s hands on her skin, flash through my mind. My blood turns to ice—a blind rage that makes my fingers itch for the hilt of my knife. I have to physically restrain myself from getting back in the car, driving back to those woods, and finding a way to bring that waste of life back, just so I can kill him again, in a more prolonged way.