Allen's fingers tightened on the saw handle, his knuckles whitening.
Catherine stood before him, so close he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the slow curl of her lips. Her eyes—those eyes he'd once drowned in—were wide, almost shimmering. Not with fear, but anticipation.
"Do it," she whispered again. "You always wanted to."
Damien was somewhere behind her, groaning, clutching his shredded arm. The wet patter of his blood on the concrete floor punctuated each breath Allen took.
His mind raced—memories slamming into each other like shards of broken glass. Catherine leaning over him in bed, her hair brushing his cheek. Catherine laughing with Damien in the street, the way her hand lingered on the other man's sleeve. Catherine's voice, soft in the dark, saying I love you.
And now—this.
Allen's grip shifted on the saw.
"You think you know me," he said, his voice low, ragged. "You think you can tell me what I wanted."
Catherine tilted her head. "I know exactly what you wanted. You wanted to keep me. Every piece of me. You just didn't have the courage to take it."
Her words lit a fuse inside him. He felt it burning, eating away the last threads of restraint.
Behind her, Damien staggered forward, his face a mask of fury. "Enough—"
Allen moved.
Not toward Damien. Toward her.
The saw came up, its teeth catching the dim light, and he swung—not a clean slice, but a brutal, tearing motion across her shoulder. The sound was wet, muffled, as if the world had pulled a blanket over reality.
Catherine gasped—but not in pain. It sounded almost like a shudder of pleasure. Her knees buckled and she sank against him, her breath hot against his ear.
"Yes…" she breathed.
Allen shoved her back. Blood spilled down the red dress, darkening it further, dripping to the floor in slow, heavy drops.
Damien roared, charging. Allen pivoted, the saw still slick in his hands, and caught Damien across the forearm again. Flesh split. The bigger man stumbled, colliding with the table, sending tools clattering to the floor.
Allen didn't wait. He turned back to Catherine.
She was still smiling, even as blood streamed down her arm. Her fingers, pale and trembling, reached for him. "Now you see," she whispered. "This is love. Not the lies you told yourself."
His breath came in ragged bursts. Every heartbeat was a drum in his skull. He could kill her. End this. End her.
But something in her gaze rooted him to the spot—a cold certainty that no matter what he did, she had already won.
"You wanted me," she said softly. "And now you have me. All of me."
Damien lunged again, this time with a blade from the table. Allen spun, bringing the saw up between them. Steel clashed, teeth grinding against edge, the screech filling the basement.
They strained against each other, sweat and blood slick on their skin. Damien's breath was hot, ragged, his eyes wild. "She's mine," he snarled.
Allen's teeth bared in something between a grimace and a grin. "Not anymore."
With a surge of strength he didn't know he had, Allen shoved Damien back, ripping the blade from his hand. The knife clattered to the floor. Allen kicked it away, then drove the saw forward—not into Damien's chest, but up, under his jaw.
The teeth bit deep.
Damien's scream was cut short by a wet gurgle. Blood poured down the front of his coat in thick, steaming streams. His body spasmed once, twice, then sagged, the saw still wedged in place.
Allen let go, and Damien crumpled to the floor, twitching before finally going still.
The silence returned, heavy and suffocating.
Catherine hadn't moved. She watched Allen with that same strange serenity, blood pooling at her feet.
"You've crossed it now," she said, almost tenderly. "No going back."
Allen's chest heaved. His hands trembled. Somewhere in his mind, a voice screamed at him to finish it—to wipe that look off her face forever.
But instead, he stepped toward her.
She didn't flinch. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Do you feel it? That heat in your chest? That's what I've been feeling since the day we met."
Allen closed his eyes. His hand came up—cupping her face. His thumb brushed her cheek, smearing her blood across her skin.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he whispered, "This isn't love, Catherine."
And with a sudden, violent motion, he shoved her back against the wall.
Her head hit the brick with a dull crack, and she slid down to the floor, her smile never fading.