Page 155 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

It's done.

I can leave. Get back to my family. Put this nightmare behind me.

I can.

But I don't.

I fuckingdon'tand my body moves without my permission.

Before I can blink, I'm standing over Miller's bed, watching him sleep with the calm expression of a man unburdened by conscience. He's topless, wrapped in pricey silk sheets, probably having peaceful dreams. The watch on his bedside table could feed a family for a year. He has everything—money, power,freedom—and he uses it to chain women in rooms and slice their skin open for his pleasure.

I've faced warlords who had more decency and class than this asshole.

I think of the woman I just freed, the way her bones pushed against her skin like they were trying to escape. I think of Londyn and the scars that map her body, those permanent reminders of what this human garbage did to her.

How many others? How many lives has he devastated just because he can? Because he wants to?

My gun feels heavier than usual as I raise it, the suppressor an extension of my arm. The sights align perfectly with his temple. One finger twitch. That's all it would take. A slight pressure and Alan Miller disappears from the earth forever.Poof.One bullet and he never hurts another woman again.

It would be so fucking easy.

My finger hovers over the trigger, a hair's breadth from action. The math is simple: one evil life versus the countless women he'll go on to hurt. It's not even a question.

But then Victor's face flashes through my mind, those soulless eyes watching me, judging me. If I kill Miller, Victor kills Mike. Then he kills Mike's pregnant wife. His children. Londyn. My unborn child. Me. Who else? Does he go after Sienna and Declan too? Then Mom and Dad, just to prove a point?

The scale tips toward an impossible calculation: which lives mean more? The specific people I love or all the nameless, faceless women Miller might hurt in the future?

Is it as simple as numbers? Six deaths versus a number that might be larger? Or is it about proximity, about the concrete reality of people I know versus the abstract potential of people I don't?

My hand shakes. The gun wavers. I've killed before, but never like this, never as judge, jury, and executioner. Never with so much hanging in the balance.

Londyn.

I swore to protect her, and pulling this trigger would be failing that promise.

I lower the weapon slowly, my chest collapsing around a breath. Pulling the trigger would be the same as putting a bullet in Londyn's heart. If she dies, I might as well turn the gun on myself because I don't belong in a world she's not in.

And even if Declan managed to get her out of the country, Victor would still kill Mike and his family. I can't live with that blood on my hands.

If Miller goes to jail and gets scared straight, maybe there won't be more victims in the future. Maybe the threat of Victor destroying his career will keep him in line and he'll stop this obsession.

I have to bet on that future.

Or…

Miller goes to jail for the drugs and loses eight months of freedom. My task for Victor would be complete. Then, a few years from now, I can 'check in' with Miller when I'm no longer on Victor's radar.

I can finish him then.

Win-win for everyone except Victor, but I couldn't give two shits about that twisted fuck.

Decision made, I turn to leave, sliding my gun into its holster and taking one final look at the man who's caused so much pain. I'll see him again.

As I move toward the door, a loud banging erupts from the closet—something falling, shifting, I can't tell. Miller' snoring stops abruptly, the rhythm broken by a sharp inhale.

Shit.

I duck into the bathroom and flatten myself against the wall as I hear Miller stirring. There's the rustle of expensive sheets and the low groan of a man reluctantly waking up.

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