Page 154 of Shattered Souls
“Ha, gotcha!” I hold up the soft toy like it’s my own personal Stanley cup. Clutching it firmly in one hand, I duck back out of the car. A chill runs down my spine, and I glance down the street. Lights are on in the neighboring houses, but otherwise, it’s empty.
Shaking off whatever that was, I gently close the car door, not wanting to slam it at this late hour. As I turn toward the house, a shadowy figure appears before me. My heart leaps into my throat as I stumble back against the side of the car.
My hand comes up to minimize the glare of the lights from the house, which casts the man’s form in shadow. I know, though. I know before I can disseminate his features that it’shim.
Bertram.
Or what’s left of him.
The fire has ravaged his once-imposing figure, leaving behind a grotesque version of the man he used to be. His skin is mottled and uneven, patches of raw, red flesh standing out against the blackened, charred skin that covers most of his face and hands. The burns have twisted his features, his lips pulledtight in a permanent sneer, his nose half-melted, and one eye almost swollen shut. The sight of him is nightmarish, and it takes everything in me not to recoil in horror.
But it’s his voice that genuinely chills me. When he speaks, it’s nothing like the cold, calculated tones I remember. The fire has stolen that from him, too, leaving behind a rasping, guttural sound that grates against my ears. It’s as if each word is being dragged out of him, scraping against his raw throat, but the malice behind it is unmistakable. “Riley,” he growls, the sound barely human, more of a hiss than a voice. “Did you truly think you could get away from me? That I’d let you go.”
The words slither through the darkness, wrapping around me like a vice. The sheer venom in them paralyzes me. Despite his injuries, despite the burns that have left him a disfigured shadow of himself, Bertram is still terrifying. Still a force to be reckoned with. His eyes, one swollen and bloodshot, the other a dull, glazed-over orb, bore into mine with a malevolent intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“You think you can build a new life without me?”
He moves closer, and I can see how the burns have affected him. His movements are stiff, jerky, as if each step causes him pain, but the determination in his eyes is undiminished. His clothes hang off him in tattered, singed rags, clinging to his ravaged body, and the smell—God, the smell—hits me like a physical blow. The acrid stench of burnt flesh, mixed with the antiseptic tang of hospital air, turns my stomach.
I step backward, my spine hitting the side of the car, but he lunges forward. “If I can't have you, then no one can!” The light from a nearby streetlamp reflects off the sharp edge of a blade. I dodge instinctively, chucking the husky at him in a moment of panic.
The blade sails past my ear and connects with the glass behind me, the car window shattering. I duck under his arm, buthis hand—raw, blistered, and trembling—catches my wrist. “You did this to me,” he rasps, the sound more of a strangled wheeze now.
I move on autopilot, noticing where his thumb is and grabbing it with my other hand, twisting. He curses, but I’m already rotating my arm, exactly as Xander showed us. With a final pull, I’m free.
But I’m not yet out of danger.
I stumble back a step, whirling toward the front door. The second my back is turned, he’s on me. I cry out as my head is wrenched backward, hair ripping from my scalp as he yanks on it. “You’re not going anywhere,” he snarls.
I realize I must have dropped the car keys at some point, and I’m utterly helpless as I’m dragged backward. The cool edge of the blade touches my throat, and blinding terror renders me immobile. I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to.
“This is the end for you, Riley,” he growls.
I can’t wrench my gaze away from the taunting warmth of the hall light. I can see Aurora’s coat hanging on the peg next to mine. Her shoes set neatly by the door and looking hilariously small beside Logan’s sneakers.
Home.
I reach out a hand, wanting to feel its warm comfort one more time, but it’s just beyond my grasp. Out of reach. Leaving me in the cold.
Bertram digs the knife into the soft flesh of my throat, and a tear rolls down my cheek, knowing this is it.
There’s a sharp stab of pain…
… Before I’m knocked forward. Bertram’s presence at my back disappears, replaced with the thud of fists and pained grunts.
I stumble on my feet before I find my balance, whirling in time to see Grayson drive his fist into his father’s face.
“You twisted fuck!” he screams into Bertram’s face. “You think you can take her from me! She’s not yours.” Another gut-wrenching punch. “She never was.” Bertram’s head whips to the side, blood trickling from his mouth. “She’s mine.” His nose shatters. “Ours.”
Punch after punch after punch.
Grayson lets out every single one of his pent-up emotions.
Everything I imagine he’s kept bottled up for years. For a lifetime.
All of it comes pouring out while I watch on, shocked, and some part of me understands that he needs this—this catharsis.
“What the hell—” Logan comes barreling out of the house in sweats and a t-shirt, his feet bare. He strides toward Grayson, but I reach out and stop him.
