Page 145 of Watch Me Burn
“Are you sure?” My voice catches on the question. What lies beyond this threshold has never been seen by anyone but me. “This room doesn’t just show you who I am, Luna. It shows you who I’ve always been.”
She closes the distance instead of retreating. Her eyes lock on mine, unflinching and fierce. The same fierceness that allowed a nine-year-old boy to survive his father’s lessons.
“I’m sure.”
My palm finds the curve of her lower back, guiding her into the darkness. Motion sensors detect our presence, and lights come on in sequence, illuminating my private museum of justice, my shrine to all the innocent lives I’ve avenged.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid as I wait for her reaction. This room will either bind us together or tear us apart. Either way, after tonight, there will be no more secrets between us.
She’ll know who she’s fallen for. And maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll love the monster too.
Chapter thirty-seven
Luna
The room steals my breath, but not for the reasons I expected. My stomach had been twisted in knots, braced for something horrific. Blood-stained trophies. Gruesome mementos.
Instead, I’m surrounded by life.
Thousands of photographs line the walls, each showing an animal in various stages of healing. Dogs with missing limbs learning to run again. Cats with burned fur growing back glossy and thick. Livestock, once emaciated, now healthy and well-nourished. The images blur together as my eyes fill with tears I didn’t know I had left in me.
“What is this?” The words escape as a whisper. I move closer to examine a photograph of a pit bull, scars crisscrossing its muzzle like a roadmap of pain, but its eyes…God, its eyes are so trusting as it gazes at the camera.
“She was my first Athena.” Damien’s voice comes from the doorway, quiet and careful. “And why I do what I do. Every animal that hadn’t already died was rescued after I dealt with its abusive owner.”
I move around the room on unsteady legs. Some of these faces are familiar. Not just from my own cases, more than I knew about, but I’ve seen many of their recovery stories shared online and in veterinary circles, celebrating their transformations.
“You fund their rehabilitation?” My ribcage feels too tight. Air moves in and out but doesn’t seem to reach my lungs.
“Yes, through the foundation.” He steps into the room but keeps his distance, as if I’m a wounded animal he might spook. “I follow their progress and make sure they get whatever they need. Medical care, behavioral therapy, special equipment.”
My fingers find a small silver tag beneath one photo. The engraving reads “Jasper—March 16, 2022.” The metal is cold against my skin.
“And these dates?”
“The dates I delivered justice.” No euphemisms, no softening of what he’s done. Just brutal honesty that makes my pulse skip.
A chill races down my spine, and I wrap my arms around myself. The methodical nature of it all—the planning, the execution, the documentation—should terrify me.
Instead, heat builds in my chest. Not horror, but something far more dangerous. The warm satisfaction of seeing monsters finally face consequences. The fierce pleasure of knowing someone fought back for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. Someone willing to become the monster so others don’t have to.
“How do you find them?”
“Various ways. I’ve developed algorithms that monitor social media and police reports for animal abuse cases. Sometimes the foundation receives tips from rescue organizations.”
I pause at a photo of a gray wolf, its intelligent eyes reminding me of Shadow. “This is why he trusted you.” I remember how my wolf had sat before Damien’s masked figure. “He sensed what you do for them.”
“He also knew I’d never hurt you.”
The words wrap around me, loaded with meaning, like a promise written in blood.
But he did hurt me, even if it wasn’t intentional.
I continue my journey around the room, each photograph a testament to lives saved through violence.
In the far corner, a small table holds a collection of masks. Earlier versions of the silver wolf mask I’ve come to know so well. They trace an evolution, becoming more refined and distinctive with each iteration.
“Why the mask?” I pick one up, running my fingers over the rough edges.
