Page 103 of Rampage

His eyelids flutter, consciousness returning briefly at my touch. A whimper escapes around the gag.

"Remember this moment," I whisper, leaning close to his ear. "When you meet your brother in hell."

The pulse beneath my fingers grows fainter, his body slackening as his life ebbs away. I don't release my grip, forcing him to remain present for every excruciating second. This is for Lily's torn clothing, her bruised throat, the terror in her eyes.

This is justice.

With a final shuddering breath, Walter Dawson goes still beneath my hands. I check his pulse one last time—nothing. It's done.

I step back, suddenly aware of the blood covering my hands, my clothes, splattered across my face. The rage that fueled me drains away, leaving hollow exhaustion in its wake. I think of Lily upstairs, waiting for me, trusting me to return to her.

I strip off my ruined clothes, stuffing them into a garbage bag along with the tools. Lane will know how to dispose of everything properly. In the small bathroom adjacent to the basement, I scrub Walter's blood from my skin, watching it swirl down the drain in pink rivulets.

Clean clothes wait on a shelf—my father's foresight. I dress mechanically, my mind already turning toward Lily, toward the future we can finally have without shadows from her past looming over us.

When I emerge from the basement, Lane waits at the top of the stairs, his expression questioning.

"It's done," I tell him.

My dad is right behind me, he stayed by my side silently and let me do what I needed to do.

"It's clean," he replies, understanding the unspoken question. "No evidence. No witnesses."

I nod gratefully, clasping his shoulder. My father squeezes my arm, a silent acknowledgment of what we've shared today—a darkness only a few would understand.

"She awake?" I ask, already moving toward the stairs.

"Meadow's with her," Lane confirms. "Said she was asking for you."

The weight of what I've done settles across my shoulders—not guilt, exactly, but the gravity of crossing a line that can never be uncrossed. Yet I would do it again without hesitation.

For Lily. Always for Lily.

I take the stairs two at a time, eager to remove the last traces of Walter Dawson with Lily's presence. Outside the bedroom door, I pause, taking a deep breath to center myself. I need to be calm for her now, steady and reassuring.

When I push open the door, the sight of her steals my breath. She sits on the bed in fresh clothes, her hair damp from a recent shower. The bruises on her throat stand out in stark contrast to her pale skin, but her eyes—those beautiful, resilient eyes—light up when she sees me.

"Reid," she whispers, rising to her feet.

I cross the room in three strides, gathering her gently against my chest. Her arms wrap around my waist, her face pressing into my shirt as if seeking my heartbeat. For several moments, we hold each other, no words necessary between us.

"It's done," I finally murmur against her hair. "He can't hurt you anymore. Any of them."

She pulls back just enough to look into my face, her eyes searching mine. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because she nods once, decisively.

"Good," she says.

The single word carries such conviction, such certainty, that the last remnants of tension drain from my body. She understands what I've done. She accepts it. Accepts me, even knowing the darkness I'm capable of.

"Are you ready to go home?" I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yes," she answers without hesitation. "Take me home, Reid."

The cabin welcomes us with golden afternoon light streaming through the windows, dust motes dancing in the air like tiny stars. I carry Lily across the threshold despite her protests, unwilling to let her exert herself after everything she's endured.

"This is unnecessary." She giggles softly as I set her gently on the couch.

"Humor me," I reply, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I need to take care of you right now."

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