All the broken shards that made up my being would catch in the wind, and I’d never be complete. Not that I ever was. But he made me feel like I could have been one day.

Frantic movements pull me from the darkness, and it takes more energy than it should to turn my attention to Marcus, who’s wriggling and shuddering helplessly. I assume he knows how tonight will end.

The last meal he ate will be the overcooked chicken I prepared. The last person to lay their hands on him will be who I thought was my other half. But the last face he sees will be mine.

Little Isa.

Pretty Isabella.

Or his personal favorite: fucking slut.

His eyes plead with me as he cries, probably praying I will be the angel sent from above to save him. He’s right about one thing: I am an angel. But I wasn’t sent, I fell. I descended through the sky with burning wings, landing outside Eden in the land writhing with serpents. Because Roman pushed me out.

I don’t realize I’ve started walking until I’m in front of him, slowly tearing the tape so he feels every bit of it.

The second his thin lips are free, he gasps for air like it’s his first time breathing. “Isa, pl—you’ve gotta help me. You’ve gotta—he’s a fucking lunatic.” He blinks fast, swinging his petrified gaze between me, the stairs, and the knife block on the kitchen bench. I keep my eyes on his face, ignoring the blood draining from the hole where his appendage used to be and the liquid clumping in his bloodied chest hair. “There—the knife. Cut—"

“Did I look this pathetic?” I ask, emotionlessly.

Like a child sniffling as the tears mixed with sweat and snot? Was this me? Did I look so deserving of the torment too? Wide, innocent eyes so full of delusion that I thought someone might actually come to save me.

“What are you talking about? Just get the fucking—"

“No.”

Mouth agape, he pauses. “What did you just fuck—"

“Shut the fuck up,” I spit.

His eyes widen, and his face loses its color.

Good. He’s scared. He should be.

“You don’t get to speak to me like that anymore.” My voice shakes as I say it.

There’s something cathartic about seeing him like this, limited by a prison of someone else’s making. I’ve never squirmed away from a little bit of blood—I’ve seen Roman covered in it enough times. This is fucked up beyond comprehension.

Usually, I’d rather walk away than cause someone’s downfall. I wouldn’t call it being the bigger person; I’d just say it’s because I’ve had enough.

He hurt me. He made my life hell. He made me scared in my own home. He made me hate every second of my life.

Now, he’s at my mercy.

My fists tremble, wanting to be unleashed on something—anything. But the thought of touching Marcus again sickens me to my very core. He’s laid his filthy hands on me for years, and I guess life comes full circle; Roman, the man who used to keep Marcus at bay, will be the one who kills him.

I reach for the shelf and grab the first thing I can wrap my fingers around. Then I throw it at him with every bit of force I can muster. One right after the other, I keep throwing everything I can get my hands on. His participation trophies, bolts, tools, photo frames, ornaments, leaving red marks on his skin.

He buckles and screams, but I don’t stop throwing item after item, until I keel over and throw up again from the sight of the blood splashing across the room.

“You’re going to die tonight, you fucking pig,” I spit. “And after everything you did to me, I’m going to enjoy watching.” I take a step forward and point at him with a shaky finger. “You’re a pathetic piece of shit who preys on women, and you’re going to suffer for all the times you’ve assaulted me.”

“Are you seriously mad about that right now?” He swings as he jerks, flapping his feet in a fruitless attempt to reach the ground. “Grow up. Untie me.”

“I was a child,” I snap, then turn to Greg, shaking my head at the sight of him and the belt around his throat. It’s mortifying, yet the perfect form of justice. “I didn’t need to grow up.” I wanted my dead mother. I wanted my father, who didn’t want me. I wanted not just to be loved but to feel it too.

“Isa, get the fu—"

I slap the tape back over his mouth, silencing him. Sometimes when angels fall, the serpents devour them. Other times, they learn to live with them.

“I’d say rest in peace, but I hope you never find it.” It feels liberating to let it roll from my tongue.

The back of my neck prickles with awareness right before I hear Roman come down the stairs.

“He better not have said anything he shouldn’t have.” The rage in Roman’s voice is well hidden underneath his sinister veneer.

I don’t need to look at him to know he’s giving Marcus a smile that’s all teeth. Because my foster brother looks at me again, pleading with his eyes for my help. How the tables have turned.

Marcus never stopped when I asked him not to push or touch me. This household turned its back when I cried because his hand slipped beneath my shirt. There’s a certain peace in knowing that he will die realizing that no one will come to save him. That I will be part of his downfall.

Behind me, something drops to the floor, but I don’t want to risk looking at Roman to figure out what it is. I should be grateful that it sounds too heavy to be another body, so maybe it wasn’t a lie Millie is alive after all. Or perhaps she’s seconds away from joining her husband.

Roman’s shoulder brushes mine as he moves past me. I know he wouldn’t hurt me physically. But I’d rather have scars on my body than my soul.

He all but saunters to Marcus, twirling the switchblade between his fingers as if he were putting on a show. “You know where you went wrong?”

Marcus sobs, flicking his bloodshot eyes between me and the monster I helped create. I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling like I need to say something, but the words are nowhere to be found.

“You fucked with my girl.” Roman chuckles darkly, glancing at me before saying, “And you should never fuck with my girl.”

The tip of the blade digs into the corner of Marcus’s jaw, blooming red as it follows the path to his chin. His thrashing only makes the cut deeper, more vicious, a thorned rose rather than a smooth lily.

I edge back, tripping over my feet as I stumble to a wall for support. I can’t look away, but the sight of the gore makes me tip over to gasp for air.

“You’re lucky she’s here. If not—you and me—we would have been having fun all night long.”

A boulder lodges in my throat, scraping along the walls of my neck.

Roman hums a made-up tune as he continues carving all sorts of shapes into Marcus’s already deformed skin. Stars, hearts, circles, his own initials—that he promptly slices through—undeterred by Marcus’s squeals of pain muffled by tape. Roman watches his handiwork with intent eyes following each motion, his body leaning forward as if in a trance, like a child doodling in class. Each glide of his hand is purposeful, going deeper in certain areas while barely grazing the flesh in others. As if he’s trying to stop Marcus from bleeding out.

As if he’s tortured someone like this before.

I wipe my trembling hands along my bare thigh and cover my mouth to silence my sobs. Marcus keeps looking at me to help him. Some sick, twisted part of me wishes Greg was still alive to be a bystander in his son’s demise.

I don't know what I feel. Guilt? Fear? Disgust? Anticipation? I feel all of it, yet none of it. Each swirl of emotion is so visceral but still so dull, as my mind refuses to comprehend the scene before me.

This is fucked up on every single level.

I know I should call for help. I need to stop Roman before he kills Marcus. I should have saved him when I had the chance.