I awoke in a plastic shuttle, not at home, not in Pack's house. Breathing, I began to recall things: the spell, my cubs. Had they survived? I remembered their exhaustion, their smallness, and my own poor condition. Time was meaningless until the shuttle moved, sliding from its unknown location. Dim light appeared, the lid shifted, and I saw witches looking at me with worry.
One said, "Morning. You've been here a week or so. We controlled the infection, but the rest is up to you. As you are resistant to our magic, we cannot assist you further. You're not in great shape, but your cubs survived—even those within you. They've been miniaturized and put to rest. You'll meet them someday."
I nodded, sat up, dizzy and weak, but determined to show no weakness, no emotion. My hate strengthened; oh, to pour it into that crystal. Then, everything would be perfect, more or less. I didn't need anyone, or if I did, it wasn't granted. My life was my own; Damon ensured each Salvatore hated me. Mariella wanted them all. The wolves took Adam and Charles. No one remained, and no one ever would.
This whole thing was a freak show, and I hated Damien, hated my life, and felt my soul harden. My age weighed heavily, and I felt hollow and profoundly lonely, but I had no choice. Again, it was my job to rid the world of Damien, regardless of the personal cost or the future.
My focus was solely on eliminating him, making the world a slightly better place—not for me, but for others. There was no saving me. I knew the beast I was, and after Damien, I would embrace my darkness, my powers, and no longer be the meek, gentle creature who gave everything to everyone else.
After Damien, I would hunt Krycheck and the other shitheads in my life. Nothing would stop me. This hatred, lack of love, and all-consuming darkness would change me profoundly, making me far stronger.
I walked back to the bedroom in the pack's house. Weighing far less than 30 kilos, I was physically weak, but holding the crystal, darkening it, made my soul thrum with power, with the idea of revenge. It felt so good; I craved its continuation. There was no love for me now; this was simply how things were. I knew my goal, and it was time to give everything to achieve it.
As I sat in the dimness of my bedroom that night, reeling over my life, I realized that, however shitty it had been, my life had meaning—it had hardened me. Perhaps this was something I was destined to do. But that didn't make it easier. I knew this would have long-lasting ramifications for all of us, but this was about me, saving the world, eliminating one nasty bastard.
I was ready to risk everything. No one in the pack knew the extent of Damien's years of abuse; Damon had no memory of most of the sessions, and I hadn't told anyone. Colin knew much of it, as he'd been the one to piece me back together. I'd compelled him to secrecy when he'd asked, making him one of my safeties.
Loneliness had long been a part of my life, a consequence of my choices. While I couldn't deny my responsibility for my actions and their consequences, perhaps it wasn't entirely my fault. I was glad I'd given up the fleas; I was now a major liability to them and their operations.
Maybe someday, purged of this, I'd find my spark to help and heal again. But honestly, if I were imprisoned in a medical facility with others, I wouldn't care; they wouldn't be my priority. I would ensure my escape and perhaps, just perhaps, theirs as well. All of this had hardened me.
I was torn. Part of me hoped Mariella would maintain her position, while another part hoped she wouldn't. That number two, Damon, would then turn to me, demand my plan, and perhaps, even support me. But that hope was foolish. Damon number one was a fucking machine, obsessed with fucking, with Mariella and consumed by hatred for me and my connections to others; I was certain he would corrupt them, too. He and Mariella would not let me have anyone.
It was, after all, what I deserved—hatred from the man who'd sworn to love me. He'd already proven his ability to influence Adam and Charles, turning them against me or at least diminishing their affection. I was alone, and I had to face this reality and proceed with my plan, no matter what.
My so-called wife was a joke, a pathetic game to get my money; there was nothing real between us. I was a beast, my inner killer far darker and stronger than Damon had ever witnessed. I was dangerous, and I would unleash that darkness, but not yet. I needed to prepare, execute my plan, and then reveal my true nature, driving them further away.
It was easy to maintain focus, to shut out the painful images of Damon and my love; it was not the time to have heart pictures in my eyes and sighing and feeling the love. I had to hate him, too, or at least be bitter and angry at him. I had ample reason for bitterness—the phone calls, the other women, the constant infidelity.
This bitterness fueled a growing darkness within me, strengthening my killer instinct. They say emotions are both power and weakness, but I refused to let them be my weakness. I transformed them into a source of power, a wellspring of the hatred I needed. This change was fundamental, irreversible, and something I didn't regret. I was finally who I was meant to be. My darkness, as well as my killer instinct, would be instrumental in what lay ahead.
It took me several days to regain my strength and function better, allowing me to plan for my recovery. However, Damon's response to my return was nothing but scorn. He coldly declared that Adam and Charles would be too busy to help me, adding that I should be grateful for his role in saving the cubs and getting me into treatment. I didn't bother to reply; it was time to move on to the next phase of my plan—another call to Jarod.
This time, I wouldn't lie, but I would carefully select and emphasize certain details to make the situation appear as dire as possible. Every poisonous word Damon uttered, every surge of hate I felt through our weakened pack bond, fueled my own hatred for Damien, and I needed that hatred to grow even stronger. I knew I'd be in a dark place afterward; I wasn't sure what I'd become. It was ironic, truly, that the last victim of Damien would be the strongest force in the universe. Our love, mine and Damon's.
I sat in one of my meticulously crafted nests—perfect in every detail, scented with my own pheromones, furnished with the finest materials and rugs. This sanctuary, a key part of my plan, would not be surrendered. With my laptop ready, I sensed Damon and Mariella moving. My door was slightly ajar as I initiated the call to Jarod.
I began by discussing my feelings, but only once I sensed Damon and Mariella were spying did I escalate my narrative.
"Jarod," I said, "now that I'm no longer a flea, I'm experiencing intense emotions—and it's incredibly difficult. All this old trauma is flooding back."
Jarod replied, "That's understandable, but you've got so much on your mind that I only need a little more to understand what you're saying."
Maintaining a calm voice but letting my feelings show, I continued, "Mostly Damon's actions. I've had time to process what Damien was, what he did to damon, and what those women were to Damon. I wasn't perfect, but why did he find me so unsuitable from almost the beginning? I feel so inadequate. What was I lacking? Bigger breasts? A better figure? Was it purely physical, or was there something else? I loved him with everything I had, and the fact that he didn't love me, that he used me, makes me feel so cheap. I mean, once he got my virginity, why not dump me and let me love Adam? He took so much from me, so many wonderful things that I never got to experience, not at the start. Why was some damn silicone filled bimbo was worthy of chocolates and roses, and all I got was angry messages or stalking?"
Jarod grunted, "I know. Charles and Adam have shown you what love can be at its best. Damon using his age as an excuse is ridiculous; he's a bastard who sees you as a possession, a trophy—nothing more. I am truly sorry your life has been as hard as it is, and I hope I could help you somehow." I added bitterly, "Not even a trophy anymore. He hates me, and I don't understand why! I've done nothing to deserve it. I've let him break my heart, stab me, abuse me, and torture me, only to be met with his hate. Just because I'm short, without large breasts and a big butt. Mariella is everything to him, and I just can't get it. I mean, she fucks with everyone, much more than I, yet she is not one to be hated. Where have I gone so wrong?"
This was our code phrase; Jarod was upping the ante to make Damon even more angry at me, to have Jarod be one. I confessed my problems to him, hoping to make number one and Mariella provoke the other Salvatores. My plan was underway.
Jarod's voice turned serious. "You know what? If I were free—hell, let me promise you this: if Miss Parker ever dies and I'm widowed, I will come for you. I'll show you what you deserve: showering you with love, gifts, and a relationship. And damn anyone who tries to stop me. I'm married, but I make this promise to you."
Jealousy surged through our link with Damon Number Two, and the door burst open. He stormed in, grabbed my laptop, and hurled it against the wall.
His eyes black with rage, he hit me hard, hissing, "Number One hates you, but you're still his vampire wife, my wife, my baby. I'll put you in a coffin. I'll make sure Jarod never gets you. Hell, I'll turn Miss Parker and him into immortal hybrids, leaving you alone."
Mariella was understandably surprised by this jealousy. She grabbed Number One, who watched with detached indifference. She whispered to him, but he coldly hissed a reply.
Once Number Two had composed himself, Number One and Mariella left. He sat by my bed. I was silent, unsure how to proceed. My little plan had spectacularly backfired; I hadn't accounted for Number Two's presence.
He grabbed my throat, pressing me against my back.
The psychic pressure was intense, but his expression softened slightly. "That... you did that on purpose? And why the hell are you here? You're a walking skeleton; you should be feeding," he said.
I swallowed. "I'm resistant to magic, so they couldn't help me. It's up to me. And yes, I did that on purpose."
Number Two said, "Why? You have some damn plan cooking, and I need to know. I won't let you go through with some plan to permanently burn bridges between you and Damon. Why are you so hellbent on destroying your love?"
I took a breath. My voice was quiet, but determined. "I'm saving the world, more or less. To do that, I need to be in a certain mode. I can't be a woman in love, and I can't tell you many details."
He grunted. "Go on. Tell me why you're doing this, and why someone else can't do it."
"It has to be me," I replied. "This will take me to a very nasty place. I know I have no right to hope or even ask, but ideally, in my dreams—wonderful dreams, that is—I'd hope you'd be there to pull me out of the darkness once my plans are finished. But realistically, Mariella's jealous, witchy, and her love potions might work on you, so you might not be there for me."
Number Two pressed his head against his hand, thinking. "You're right, in a perfect world. Mariella wouldn't have been necessary; we'd have had each other. But this isn't a perfect world. I'm not perfect; even I was the first to get away from Damien, making me an excellent target for Mariella, who wants all of us—as sex toys, more or less. But, baby, I try. I get that you're making another ultimate sacrifice, and I hope this won't be like that damn week—you, lifeless and cold in my arms. I still have nightmares about it."
I smiled wistfully. "You know, I'll never truly die. My spark may dim, but it won't extinguish. You might genuinely hate me when my plan succeeds, and I wouldn't blame you. But I hope that someday, if that hatred fades, you'll send me an angel."
Number Two said, "Sweetheart, I'm not Number One. I'll never hate you. I'm the bad guy here. I saw your mind, even when I betrayed you. We still have our love. You're an angel, something I don't deserve, even though I love you so much it hurts. I could blame Damien's manipulations, but I'm just weak, too eager to chase easy sex."
I don't know, maybe I'm masochistic, but I had to ask, "Say you're at those parties tomorrow, would you sleep with those women, knowing Mariella's with Number One, using you as you use them? And if Mariella walked in, what would she see?"
Number Two smirked. "She'd see me in my chair, a tall redhead in my lap, gyrating. I'd call her 'darling,' compliment her, and fuck her like no other. I might even hint to others to pursue Mariella. You haven't been to those parties; it's a lust queen being ogled, commented on by drunk men, groped, treated not as a princess, but as just another woman. They can be cruel."
I was slightly surprised, but not too much. I smirked, imagining Mariella's reaction. I felt naughty. We talked for hours, making the scenario even more explicit and raunchy. Let's just say we had to put some of it into practice, as my husband decided I needed to be filled and utterly his.
I was sleeping on top of him; I wasn't sure how long we'd been together, but I was exhausted from the exertion. My fitness was still lacking. Then Mariella stormed in, hitting me and throwing me to the floor. She forced another potion into Number Two, as Number One, acting as pack leader, had instructed.
He looked at me coldly and hissed, "Mimi, I know some versions of me are still weak, lured by your little martyr act. But be assured, Mariella and I will help them see the truth. You are a manipulative, destructive creature, a beast bringing chaos to this pack. If I could, I'd throw you out, but you're such a handy power source, you can stay." He then drained my power, causing me to faint.
Upon waking, I was weaker than ever. Number One's little stunt had made Number Two's eagerness to fill me useless; I was still barely 30 kilos. But it was fine; I could do this, and it was better this way. I needed their hate, their scorn. Then, one day, when I revealed my plan and my actions, maybe I'd see a flicker of regret in their eyes, a recognition of their foolishness. By then, however, it would be too late—too many bridges burned. All they would have left would be bitter ashes and regrets, while I would be something else entirely.
Returning to my "war room," I picked up my crystal. Surprisingly, it grew darker, and I realized the depth of my feelings for Number Two. The knowledge that I would destroy those feelings, too, hurt. There was no love for me; it was time to move forward with my plan and see what happened next.