Page 89 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Jack drops limp. I grab the phone from his pocket and check the screen. No calls made. Good.

But he’s still breathing. Shallow, ragged gasps that bubble slightly with blood.

I glance at Noah, knowing I have to do it again. He nods once.

I bring up and down again, putting my full weight behind it. The crack of bone is audible this time, a sound that reverberates through my bones and settles in the darkest parts of my soul.

Jack’s breathing stops.

I stand over him for a moment, watching for any sign of movement, any indication that he might survive this. Nothing. Just the spreading pool of blood and the absolute stillness of death.

Noah hands me the Instax camera. He took a few before I killed him, and now he wants me to take the rest. I always document Reaper business, and this... this definitely qualifies. The flash illuminates the scene in stark detail as I take the first photo: 11:47 PM. Jack’s chest barely moving, life clinging by the thinnest thread.

I check my watch, then settle back against the wall to wait. Five minutes. Five minutes to ensure there’s no chance of survival, no possibility of testimony.

At 11:52, I take the second photograph. Jack’s chest is perfectly still, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Confirmation of death.

The next hour is spent in careful arrangement. I move Jack’s body slightly, adjusting the angle to make it appear that Rhea’s initial push caused the fatal injury. I place the broken bottle where it would have landed naturally, scatter a few drops of Jack’s blood to muddy the forensics.

Every detail matters. Every piece of evidence must tell the story I want told—that a girl defended herself against an attacker and accidentally struck a killing blow.

By the time I’m finished, the scene is perfect. A tragedy, but an understandable one. Self-defense, not murder.

I stare at Jack, relieved that he didn’t do more to her. I tell myself I did this to protect her. That I did it because Jack touched what belonged to me. Because he dared to lay hands on my dove.

Back in the present, Rhea’s face is a canvas of horror and betrayal, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. She’syanking at the door handle with desperate violence, the mechanism clicking uselessly against the engaged locks.

“Let me out,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “Let me out right fucking now.”

I reach down slowly, deliberately, gathering the scattered photos from my lap and the center console. Each one slides between my fingers like silk, the glossy surfaces still warm from the heat of her rage.

“I protected you,” I say, my voice calm, measured. Each word carefully chosen and delivered with calmness.

“You murdered him!” Her accusation hangs in the air between us, sharp and clean.

“I eliminated a threat.” The correction comes easily, automatically. Because that’s what Jack was—a threat to what’s mine, a poison that needed to be removed before it could spread.

“You let me think I was akiller.”

I slide the photos back into their envelope, taking my time with each one, letting her watch as I handle the evidence of my crime with casual indifference.

“Yeah, and it was hot. Watching you think so poorly of yourself… or highly.”

The envelope feels substantial in my hands, weighted with more than just paper and ink. It’s proof of my devotion, my willingness to cross any line to keep her safe. To keep her mine.

“The question is, Dove,” I say, turning to face her fully, drinking in every detail of her anguish. The way her chest heaves with each panicked breath. The pulse hammering visibly in her throat. The delicate flush that spreads across her cheeks when she’s emotional.

Beautiful. Always so fucking beautiful.

“What are you going to do about it now?”

Her mouth opens and closes like she’s drowning, struggling to find words in the wreckage of everything she thought she knew.The silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and dread.

Because we both know the answer. She can rage and scream and hate me all she wants, but she’s trapped now more completely than ever. Not by blackmail this time, but by truth.

She knows what I’m capable of. She knows what I’ll do for her.

She knows what I’ll do to anyone who tries to take her away from me.

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