Page 136 of Shattered In Darkness

Marcus. What’s left of him.

I can barely make out his face, flesh burnt, skin sloughing away. A ruined red mess. There’s a hollow where his mouth used to be, blood oozing from the corners. His eyes are still open—glassy, almost human—except they’re staring at nothing.

He’s not moving. Won’t move again. One leg sticks out at an impossible angle, and he’s open from the belly down, guts leaking out in strings, half-cooked, steaming in the arctic air.

I fixate on his hands. The same hands that cuffed me, bruised me, dragged me back home, held me down. Now curled, broken, fingers blackening in the heat.

No more. No more. No more.

My jaw clenches. I think I might vomit, but I won’t. Not now.

It’s snowing outside. Thick flakes drifting past the barn window, catching the moonlight. The sky is blue-black, endless. I can feel the wind even in here. In the space between darkness and blood cooling, there’s just Brody.

Brody, standing over the body.

Blood gloves his hands, arms painted scarlet, red up to the elbow. Chest bare, breaths coming in deep, snarling gulps. His face is cut up, bruised, eyes wide and wild. Alive in a way I’ve never seen, not even before.

His mouth moves, lips torn and dark, but he doesn’t say it yet. He just stares at what he’s done. At what I’ve let him do for me. Savage satisfaction, gleaming where mercy should be.

For a long second, neither of us speak. The only sound is the popping of burnt hair, the sucking noise of blood pooling under Marcus’s ruined head.

I force my lungs to work, force my legs to stay standing, numb to the pain in my ankle, my ribs, my battered face. Something in my chest twists. The horror is still there, churning up my insides. But under it. Awe. Relief. Sick, dizzy relief.

I say it before I can stop myself. Voice hoarse, shredded by smoke and terror. “I’m free.”

The words hang in the barn.

Brody looks at me then. Real, truly looks. His gaze devours me. Neck, mouth, hands, the blood on my skin. The part of him that was always hunger and violence, finally unmasked. There’s nothing human left in that stare except a craving for me.

He steps over Marcus’s body, leaving a trail of red footprints behind. When he stops in front of me, his hands are still wet, fists shaking, breaths loud.

He cups my neck, smearing blood on my jaw, tilting my face up. “I can’t promise I’ll ever be the Brody you fell in love with,” he says, voice so low it’s barely real. “But I can be the man you need now. The man who can love you. If you’ll have me. I can’t undo what I did, but I can make it better by ending the monster that took you from me.”

He waits, like the world might crack open if I don’t answer.

My heart splits. I see him. The boy I loved, crushed under years of pain, learning to kill for a father nearly as monstrous as mine. I see regret eating at him. I see darkness sweeping the rest away. The cost of every drop of blood that’s just hit the floor. Blood for me.

My voice is gone, but I find it. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

Brody’s eyes shine wet, like a ghost. He swallows. Steps closer. The snow outside falls heavier, sticking against the glass. It's cold everywhere. Except here, where Brody’s body is a bonfire.

I walk into his arms. He wraps me up, hard, clutching like he’ll never let go. His hands dig into my back, over my ribs, tasting every bruise, every cut. His heart beats so wild I feel it in my own chest.

We kiss. Fuck; we crash together.

I open for him, blood and need, wanting to be devoured. Wanting to be wrecked by someone who at least knows my name.

We bite. We claw. I rip at his pants, his belt, the ruined jacket with its shredded sleeves. He tears my shirt off in chunks, dragging his mouth over my shoulder, my collarbone, my tits. The cold doesn’t register. There’s only heat. Pain, pulse, living.

He lifts me, slams my back against the barn wall, fucks his hand between my thighs. Two fingers, thick, rough, deep enough to make my whole body spasm. I arch against him, crying out. I don’t care if anyone hears.

I want the world to know Marcus is dead.

Brody grinds me down to the dirt, the hay, the red-streaked ground. We’re sliding in red slush, old straw matted with blood and snowflakes. Filthy and perfect.

Marcus’s corpse is right there. Inches away. Face open, eyes open. I flinch, just for a second. The dead gaze needles into my skin.

Brody notices. His mouth is on my jaw, his hand squeezing my thigh so hard it leaves bruises. He follows my eyes, then he pulls away, calm, almost cold.