CHAPTER 8: SCARLETT
374 Words
I didn’t respond right away.
Because it was dangerous, how familiar that sounded.
He wasn’t begging. Wasn’t performing. Just laying it out—cold and quiet, like someone who’s been holding a scream in his mouth for so long it turned into silence.
Still. I needed more.
“You lived in that house,” I said. “You ate his food. Called him dad. You slept while I was locked in a cell for something he did. So why now? Why not ten years ago?”
He didn’t blink.
“Because I was sixteen, terrified, and alone,” he said. “Because I knew if I said anything, he’d make my mother disappear. Or me. And I wasn't as brave as you.”
I flinched.
He saw it—but didn’t press.Something cracked, then. Not trust. Not belief.
Just… curiosity.
If he was lying, he was doing a damn good job at it, he was playing the long game. And if he wasn’t?
Then I wasn’t alone anymore.
And that was more terrifying than anything.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, voice lower.
“To help you destroy him,” Damien said. “Not just make him suffer. Not just hurt his reputation. But end him. Completely. With no coming back.”
I stared at him.
“You sure you're not just a scared little boy trying to feel strong?”
“I stopped being scared a long time ago,” he said. “And I don’t want to feel strong. I want Harold to feel small. Like we did.”
I looked down at the blade in my hand.
Then back at him.
Then I slipped it into my sleeve again, slow and deliberate.
“Fine,” I said. “You can walk beside me. But if I even smell betrayal—”
“You’ll kill me,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “I’ll make you live long enough to regret it.”
And I meant it.
But for the first time since walking out of prison, I didn’t feel like I was walking into this war alone.
I felt like someone else knew the terrain—and was just as willing to burn it down.
- Writer
