“We—we were going to throw them away, but we decided to keep them,” he says quickly.

I cut an inflamed glare at Marcus before turning my attention to Greg. “Is that true?”

When he doesn’t answer, I press the blade against Marcus’s chest, and he nods quickly.

My pulse pounds relentlessly in my ears. After all these years of thinking she threw me away or forgot about me… she never forgot about me; she never got my letters. I can’t help but laugh. She wasn’t ignoring me. She doesn’t hate me. She isn’t mad at me. She just had no idea where I was. Bella’s waiting for me.

The two men glance at each other while I continue laughing. The sound dies in my throat when I look at Greg, my eyes narrowing on the belt wrapped around his throat.

I left her unprotected, and she was hurt because I wasn’t there.

Because of them, she thought I left her.

I grit my teeth and rip off a piece of duct tape from the roll and slap it over Marcus's mouth. “You two?” I chuckle, lacking any humor. “Oh, you two fucked up real bad.” They both start screaming when I tear Greg’s shirt open. “Do you know what you did?” The two men thrash and mumble as I grab the belt from around Greg’s neck, pulling my arm back and swinging down so the buckle comes down on his bare chest, splitting his skin in two. “You put your hands on her.” I bring the belt down again with an audible whip. “You kept her from me.” Again. “You hurt her.” Twice this time. “You treat her like a slave.” Three times. “You talk down to her.” Four. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

He sobs and says something behind his tape.

“I can’t hear you.” I cup the back of my ear. “Nothing? Alright.” I keep beating him with his belt, alternating between the buckle and the tail. “Does that feel nice, Gregory? Do you like the way your belt feels?”

He cries out in pain and fear as he shakes his head.

“You know what I think? I think you like it.” I turn to Marcus, saying to Greg over my shoulder, “I think your son might like it, too.” I laugh at the tears streaming down Greg’s reddened face. “Come on boys, the show is just getting started.”

They shouldn’t have touched Bella.

They shouldn’t have looked at her.

They shouldn’t have fucking breathed near her.

Marcus swings away from me, but there’s nothing he can do to get out of my range. There’s nothing anyone could do to stop me as I slice each and every one of Greg’s fingers and Marcus’s dick off, or as I buckle the belt around Greg’s neck. I step back and look to make sure that Marcus is watching as Greg—his father—dies, slowly losing oxygen.

“Don’t worry,” I say to Marcus with a shrug. “You’re next.”

He sobs as my knife pierces into him, leaving another trail of blood down his body. The sound of floorboards whining behind me rips me out of my blood-crazed haze, back stiffening in anticipation. I jolt back from Marcus and spin around with the knife raised and ready to attack.

Bella.

Dropping my arm and the knife to my side, I rip off my mask. Even with her hair standing at odd angles and her brown eyes puffy from sleep, she’s gorgeous. I move closer, wanting to feel her. Now I know she wasn’t trying to hurt me; she wasn’t trying to pretend I didn’t exist.

But she isn’t looking at me; she’s looking at them.

Is she admiring my handiwork? Is she happy they’ll never be able to come near her again—that I saved her?

“I’m sorry, Princess,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She looks at me for a fleeting second, instantly looking away, causing a pang to go through my chest. There’s not an ounce of surprise or happiness on her face, nothing that could suggest she’s even remotely glad to see me.

I step in front of Marcus’s hanging body, so she has no choice but to look at me. I want to know exactly what she’s thinking and why she looks like she’s wishing I weren’t here. Easing closer to her, I decide that I want—no, need—her to know I’m real, I’m here for her. I’m never going away again. First, her bottom lip trembles. Then, the tears well in her eyes, and a sob rips through her little body.

I would get shot in the chest again just to stop her tears.

She’s in my arms before I realize I’m moving. “No, no, shh. It’s okay. Don’t cry, alright? I’ve got you.” My girl is too beautiful to cry over those pieces of shit. It’s all over now. Red smears across her cheek from my thumb, and the sight of her covered in my favorite color makes me feel more deranged.

She shoves me. “Don’t touch me,” she pleads.

“You were always a heavy sleeper.” I chuckle even though it hurts. Bella missed me as much as I missed her—I know it. She’s only reacting like this because I’m a little dirty now. I mean, the number of times Bella has seen me covered in blood is well over double digits, so it’s nothing new, but the substance covers me more than usual.

She loves me, and she’s glad I’m back.

Marcus screams, ruining our moment. Her eyes snap away from the smile on my lips when I nudge the handle of the knife into her hand. “Would you like the honors, Princess?”

After everything that piece of shit did to her, she’s the one who should have been beating Greg with the belt he used on her, the one carving into Marcus until he bleeds out. It’s infuriating contemplating how much they might have done that I haven’t seen. I’ve watched as Bella barricades her bedroom door just to get changed, thinking, ‘What the fuck did they do to her to make her listen about the chair?’

She has every right to take from them when they’ve taken from her without asking. She deserves their blood and so much more. I did this for her.

Her vengeance.

Her liberation.

Her justice.

After this, she’ll know what freedom feels like. She’ll know what it means to never be alone again. We’ll be together. We can do this together.

Bella sniffles, looking anywhere but at me. “Where—Where’s Millie?”

That wasn’t the answer that I was hoping for, but I realize she has a soft spot for motherly figures, even if said figure is a bitch. “She’s okay.”

“What does ‘okay’ mean?” I reach for her, but she steps back, shaking her head from side to side, taking in the room. “What have you done?”

Not once have her almond-shaped brown eyes focused on mine. I just want her to look at me. Why won’t she look at me?

Wait. No. Why is she fighting me, resisting everything I’m doing—and have done—for her? I’ve spent every day of the past three years trying to get back to her. I thought she’d be happy to see me. She’s meant to be happy to see me.

“What have you done, Roman? What—what is this? What are you—I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

Roman.

Roman. Roman. Roman.

That’s not my name, not to her. It sounds wrong on her tongue—feels wrong—like she’s talking about a stranger, not the person who hasn’t left her side in fourteen years. The very same person who has made sure she was warm and fed and never felt alone or afraid. The one who would do anything for her.

I try to hold her still and reason her with my stare, but she still won’t fucking look at me.

Just fucking look at me, Bella.

“Deep breaths, Bella. Don’t look, alright? Just focus on me.”

“No. No!” she screams. “You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.”

“I prefer the term ‘artist.’”

She’s shocked. I get it now: this is a lot for her to take in. I’ve kept this side of me hidden from her, so it’s only natural.

Bella blinks and leans back like she’s just been hit. “What is your fucking problem? Why are you here? You left, so you should stay gone.” Each word drips with malice.

I run my tongue over my teeth. I’m telling myself this is a completely normal reaction to have, and once all the bodies are out of sight, she’ll realize that it’s me: her Mickey. The love of her life.