Page 125 of Decimation

He sees me, and his lips pull into a surprised smirk. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance.

He’s here to kill me, he must be. He’s found me after all this time. Well, I won’t let him hurt me, not any longer.

Rage consumes me, white-hot and absolutely blinding.

I’m on him before he can react, my hands clawing at his face, my nails digging into his skin. He cries out, trying to throw me off but I’m stronger now. After all these years, I am stronger.

I find the dagger at his belt, my fingers closing around the handle. I pull it free and plunge it into his chest, once, twice, three times, and then I stop counting. He fights back at first, his hands grabbing at my wrists but soon he’s too weak, too wounded to do anything but gasp for breath.

I don’t stop.

The blade sinks into his flesh again and again, each stab a release, a catharsis. All I can think about is all the times he raped me, all the times he hurt me, tortured me, made me bleed and called it ‘training’. Blood splatters across my hands, my arms, my face, but I don’t care. This is justice. This is revenge.

I deserve this. Cass deserves this. This moment here is divine retribution finally being metered out.

Footsteps echo behind me, and I freeze, my heart pounding. Oh God, is it Ezekiel too? Is he here as well?

But when I turn, it’s not him. It’s Lazarus.

He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him over the roar of blood screaming in my ears. His colours swirl around him, soft blues and greens, steady and sincere. He’s not lying. Whatever words are coming out of his mouth, he is telling the truth.

He steps closer, his hands reaching for me. I flinch, but he doesn’t stop. He takes the dagger from my hand, his touch gentle, and pulls me into his arms.

“It’s him,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “It’s fucking him.”

I can’t seem to articulate all the thoughts in my head, but I know he knows. I know he understands.

The blood is everywhere.

It’s on my hands, my arms, my face. It’s soaked into my clothes, staining the fabric a deep, dark red. I can feel it drying on my skin, sticky and cold. I stare down at my hands like I don’t recognize them. They’re not mine. They’re the hands of a monster, a killer.

But I don’t feel like a monster. I feel… nothing.

Lazarus is here, his presence the only thing anchoring me to reality right now. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions. He just takes my hand and leads me away from the body, away from the blood, away from the chaos.

We’re in his chambers now, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of candles. The air is warm, scented with lavender and something else, something earthy and comforting. He guides me to the bathroom, where a large tub of steaming water awaits.

He doesn’t ask if I want to wash. He doesn’t need to.

I stand there, numb as he begins to undress me. His hands are gentle, careful as he peels away the blood-soaked fabric. I don’t resist. I don’t have the strength.

He helps me into the shower, the warm water enveloping me like a cocoon. I shut my eyes as the water turns pink. Lazarus steps in beside me, a sponge in his hand, and begins to wash me.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say a word.

His touch is soft as he cleans the bits of congealed blood from my skin. He moves slowly, methodically. As if he’s washing away not just the blood but the pain, the anger, the fear.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the water and the gentleness of his touch soothe me, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. I step out, forcing myself to move, and wrap a towel around my body.

“The other man,” I say, my voice barely audible. “What will happen to him?”

“He’ll be dealt with,” Lazarus says, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.

“What does that mean?”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You know what it means.”

I do. Of course I do. The man will be killed. Executed. All because he saw too much.