Chapter Nine - He hasn’t started yet

Chloe's POV

"You said over your dead body." His voice stayed even. Almost polite. "That can be arranged."

My blood turned to ice.

No.

The word screamed through my mind, but my throat had closed. I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at the gun in his hand—dark, matte, impossibly solid—and the way it sat there like it belonged.

He just held it, letting me see the weight of it, the ease with which it rested in his palm. His finger lay along the side of the trigger guard, casual, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

For a moment neither of us moved.

My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack bone. My hands had gone cold. My legs felt like water. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to grab my mother, to do something—but there was nowhere to go. Just this tiny apartment, this monster, and the gun that had appeared in his hand like it was an extension of his body.

Then he lifted his arm in one smooth motion and pointed the barrel at the ceiling.

No—

The shot cracked through the small apartment like a physical blow.

The sound was sharp, violent, and final. It slammed against the thin walls and came back twice as loud, ricocheting through my skull until I couldn't tell where it had come from. A chunk of plaster exploded outward above our heads. White dust and larger fragments rained down in a sudden cloud, settling on my shoulders, on the floor, on the arm of the wheelchair.

My mother screamed.

The sound was thin and broken—a wounded animal noise that cracked in the middle and dissolved into sobs. My body jerked hard. My shoulder slammed into the doorframe with a dull thud that sent pain shooting down my arm. For a split second, pure shock flooded through me. Terror flickered there, raw and unguarded, before the anger surged back in to cover it. My mouth opened on a silent gasp. My chest heaved once, twice, as if the air had been knocked clean out of my lungs.

He shot. He actually shot.

He lowered the barrel to the side and looked at me across the small distance between us.

"You may not be Ruby,” he said, voice flat. “But you are coming with me.”

The words landed like stones in my stomach.

I stared at him—really stared—and what I saw made my blood run cold.

His eyes were empty.

“You’re insane,” I spat. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

I didn’t think. I just ran.

My mother was whimpering in the wheelchair, small, broken sounds that tore straight through me. I dropped to my knees in front of her, wrapped both arms around her shaking body, and pulled her against me as tightly as I dared.

“It’s okay,” I whispered into her hair, voice trembling. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”

She clung to me with what little strength she had, still making those terrified little noises against my shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands shook so hard I could feel them against my back.

“Chlo… don’t… don’t go… bad man… don’t leave… please… stay… don’t… with him…” The words came out broken, tangled, half-swallowed by fear and the damage left in her mind. She kept repeating fragments, her fingers twisting weakly in my shirt like she could hold me here by force of will alone.

"Mom." My voice broke. I cupped her face in my hands, trying to anchor her, trying to bring her back to me. "Mom, look at me. I'm here. I'm right here."

But she wasn't looking at me. She was looking past me, at him, and the terror in her eyes made me want to burn everything down.

He scared her. He scared my mother.

The hatred that flooded my chest was so intense it nearly choked me. It was a living thing, hot and sharp, spreading through my veins like fire. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until the light left his eyes. I wanted to make him feel even a fraction of the terror he had just inflicted on the only person I had left in this world.

"You have five minutes," he said from behind me. Flat. Cold. Impatient. "I won't repeat myself."

My head snapped up.

""Can you not see her?" The words tore out of me, raw and shaking. "Can you not see what you're doing to her? She's terrified. She doesn't understand what's happening. She thinks you're going to hurt me. She thinks—" My voice cracked and I had to stop, had to breathe.

He moved.

Slow. Deliberate. Each step measured like he had all the time in the world.

I stopped breathing.

He walked toward me—toward us—and I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but watch him close the distance between us with that unhurried, predatory grace. His footsteps were quiet on the worn carpet. His face was still. His eyes were fixed on mine.

He stopped close. Too close. Close enough that I could see the faint lines around his mouth, the cold calculation behind his gaze, the absolute absence of anything human.

"She thinks I'm going to hurt you," he repeated slowly. His voice was soft. Almost thoughtful. Like he was tasting the words, turning them over, examining them from every angle. "Is that what she thinks?"

I couldn't answer. My throat had closed. My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might burst.

He tilted his head. Just slightly. Just enough to make my skin crawl.

"Maybe she's right."

The words landed like a blade between my ribs.

What—

He leaned in. Just a fraction. Just enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the clean, cold scent of him, see the way his pupils had dilated into black pools. The world seemed to slow. The air thickened. Every sound faded except the rush of blood in my ears and the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Maybe I will hurt you," he murmured. His eyes never left mine. "Maybe I'll hurt you very, very badly."

My vision tunneled. My hands went numb. I wanted to scream. Wanted to shove him. Wanted to claw his face and run and never look back. But I couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stand there, frozen, while he loomed over me like a shadow made flesh.

He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me and leave my mother here to die and no one will ever know what happened to us.

The terror was a living thing, clawing at my insides, screaming in a voice I couldn't hear.

But beneath it—beneath the fear, beneath the panic, beneath the primal, animal instinct to submit and survive—something else stirred.

Rage.

It built slowly. A heat in my chest. A pressure behind my eyes. A trembling in my hands that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with fury.

How dare he.

How dare he stand in my home. How dare he terrify my mother. How dare he look at me with those dead eyes and threaten me like I was nothing, like we were nothing, like he could do whatever he wanted and face no consequences.

How dare he.

I straightened.

My spine snapped straight. My chin lifted. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.

"You monster." My voice shook. "What did we ever do to you?"

My voice came out low.

"What did my family ever do to deserve this? What did she ever do?" I jerked my head toward my mother, who was still crying, still shaking, still trapped in a nightmare she couldn't wake from. "She's in a wheelchair. She can barely speak. She needs medication she doesn't have, and you—you come in here with your gun and your threats and you—"

My voice cracked. Broke. Shattered into a thousand pieces.

But I didn’t stop.

“What the hell did my family ever do to you? What did we ever do to you, Spencer McCartney? Why do you hate us this much? Why would you put her through this?”

Spencer stared at me like I had lost my mind.

There was no recognition in his face. No flicker of guilt. No sign that any of my words meant a single thing to him. Just cold, irritated confusion—and something darker settling behind his eyes, like he had already decided this conversation was the beginning of something, not the end.

He tilted his head slightly.

“I don’t know what delusional story you’ve invented in that head of yours,” he said, voice soft and cutting, “but I haven’t even started with your family yet.”