Page 95 of Shadows of the Past
I can’t tell if he’s surprised by the betrayal. Maybe, deep down, he always knew he’d die by my hand—that his sick obsession with me would be his undoing. He clung to the idea that we were bound by fate, by this cursed defect in our hearts.
I can tell he recognizes the people behind me. I know he remembers every plea, every drop of blood, and I just hope he doesn’t start begging too soon. I want to watch him swallow every complaint, see the veins in his neck strain until they’reready to burst. His heart is weak and time is short, but I want us to have the satisfaction of cutting him—just once—before the devil calls him home.
One by one, his victims step forward and pick a weapon from the table where Akim has laid out everything we’ll need for this. Mikail grabs a hammer, turning it over in his hand, hatred burning in his eyes. The rage makes him tremble, but it’s that same fury that drives him to bring the hammer down on Ivan’s shin in a single, brutal swing. My adoptive father bites his tongue, letting out nothing but a guttural sound.
Good. I hope you last until it’s my turn. Save your screams for me.
Isabella chooses a handful of nails and a mallet. The little girl Ivan once forced to kneel before him is the first to get a real reaction—a slight jerk of his head, just enough to show he knows this is going to hurt. Badly.
She looks at me, and I know what she wants to do. I take Ivan’s left hand and press it flat against a makeshift wooden table.
The first nail bites into his skin, a stream of red pooling on the table. Isabella doesn’t stop. When she steps back, Ivan has five nails in each hand.
“For every day you touched me. For every breath that reeked of whiskey. I hope you burn in hell forever.”
Each person chooses their weapon, reclaiming the part of themselves that was destroyed in this place.
By the end, Ivan is barely breathing. His whimpers are a twisted mix of agony and relief.Does he really think it’s over? That I’ll just put a bullet in his head?
I know how much blood he’s lost, how fragile his heart is. He’s got minutes left, at most, but I’ll make them count.
The scalpel feels electric in my palm. I lean in, meeting his eyes.
“You were so blind. So deaf. So numb. I hope I can show you just how much that hurt me. Goodbye, Ivan. If we meet in hell, I’ll come play with you again.”
He hisses, “You’re my greatest disappointment.”
I shake my head. “No, Ivan. You should be proud. I learned to be an even bigger snake than you.”
I grip his throat to steady his head, press the scalpel to his chest, and his screams—God, his screams—are my release. I feel the old Maksim, the one he tried to bury, clawing his way out of the darkness.
Vera’s last request echoes in my mind as I work, feeling every layer of tissue give way under the blade. It takes effort, but with Akim’s tools, I finally pull his heart from his chest and squeeze. This chunk of flesh kept him alive all these years, pumped blood through his veins while he destroyed us.
Now he’s gone.
The scalpel clatters to the floor, the only sound in the warehouse’s silence.
Mikail takes my hand. I look down and see Isabella take the other. One by one, we form a human chain, standing together while the man who tore us apart lies dead at our feet.
He’ll never hurt anyone again.
Maybe this is the cure we needed to finally leave the past behind, a past so stained with blood and pain that I know it’ll ripple into the future. This fight won’t end tomorrow, but I feel a chapter closing.
And right now, standing here together, complicit in this act, I realize I was never alone. I was with them. Every step. In suffering. In escape. In writing our future.
Chapter 35
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Julia
Ifeel him the moment he steps up behind me. I haven’t dared to go back inside this house. I can’t bear to see the chipped paint, the senseless paintings, the rooms that have witnessed so much horror.
His arms slide around me, and when I glance down, his hands are stained with blood. I don’t care. I know it’sthat monster’sblood and maybe, just maybe, Max’s soul is a little lighter now.
“On the way home, I caught the scent of chamomile,” he whispers, his voice rough, like he’s holding back tears.
His breath warms the base of my neck as he pulls me closer, holding me tightly enough to anchor us both.
