Page 129 of Crown of Thorns
As we step through the underground tunnel and enter the Atrium, I see the commotion. Three men have been forced to their knees, held at gunpoint. No one speaks as we all move to stand around the center of the glass building.
“The Board has come out here tonight to turn wrong into right,” Dad says. “And we have invited a select few of you to be present for tonight's punishment. These men have tormented one of ours. They have abused their power to make his life hell.” Dad’s hand lands on Noah's shoulder. In support, perhaps, butmost importantly, in a silent challenge. “You have been given authorization to decide on the punishment. The Board supports your claim. Every last one of us.”
Noah steps forward. I don't realize I've held my breath until he speaks.
“You've given me hell. You've also given me love. If you hadn't brought me here, I wouldn't have met my match. My love. That's your mistake. Because you did him wrong in a pathetic attempt to get to me, just like you did me wrong in an attempt to get to my granddad. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”
He looks back at Dad, who nods. Noah squares his shoulders. I swear I can feel his eyes on me.
He holds up his hand for everyone to see the syringe he's holding. A mutual gasp fills the Atrium. “This is what they used on my love. Not enough to kill, but enough to hurt. Enough for him to be left unprotected, but unable to do anything about it, while they tortured his mind, and brutalized his body.”
Noah steps forward. One of the men muffles a complaint through his gag, but the guard kicks him in the back, morphing the sound to a pathetic whimper. “Tonight, you are the wrath of a life filled with bitterness,” he says, his voice steady but trembling at the edge. “My life. You destroyed my happiness. You shattered my chance to ever be reunited with my family. You threatened my love.” I never thought I was capable of hating anyone except myself. But you are proving me wrong.”
More whimpers this time. Noah ignores them, instead crouches down in front of the first man and rips off his mask.
There’s a communal gasp. Behind me, someone mutters, "About damn time." Another nods. No one looks away.
I’m staring at the face of a stranger, but his mask, I remember all too well. Now he's a blubbering mess.
Noah doesn't let him speak, just plunges the syringe into his arm and empties it. It doesn’t take long for his body to start convulsing, his eyes rolling back. He dies with a surprised look on his face.
Noah crouches back in front of Zachary, who glares at him with a ferocity that makes me believe he still thinks he can get out of this. “There's no happy ending for the devil,” Noah mutters. “I'm giving you my inner monsters, because I'm tired of them always ruining everything.”
He empties the syringe into his veins.
While Zachary’s body has a seizure, Noah moves to the third man.
Elder Jacques.
His cane lies next to him on the tiles.
“My future fiancé hates you,” Noah murmurs. “I'll see you in hell.” And it’s not just rage, it’s clarity. He’s not ashamed anymore. He’s choosing me, even in violence, even in vengeance.
Something in me detonates at the words. Not just because he said it aloud, but because he meant it. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. It was a promise, a vow. A lifeline thrown straight into my chest. For one surreal second, the world narrows to him and me and the future he's finally claiming.
The Atrium, our glass cathedral, holds its breath as if recognizing the vow. It has seen us broken, bound, and now...reborn.
He still looks down at the corpses long after they’ve stopped twitching. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares at his hands like they belong to someone else. Then he looks up, blank, wrecked, alive.
“Sweetheart,” he finally says. “Take me home.”
The blood on his hands mirrors the ink on his arm: painful, permanent, earned.
His voice barely carries, thick with weariness. I watch him, his shoulders loose, hands unsteady, but his jaw still tight with purpose. For all the fury he just unleashed, there’s something broken in his eyes now. A man who has buried pieces of himself with each body. My throat tightens. I want to hold every shattered part.
We step out into the cool night, the forest alive with secrets and shadows, but our hands are clenched tight.
We leave the Atrium with blood still wet on Noah’s fingers.
He doesn’t look back. Just walks like he owns the forest now, his jaw set, like it’s always belonged to him. And maybe he does.
His mask is off. His jaw is set. His hands shake, but he doesn’t stop moving until we’re clear of the lights and the people and the memory of three bodies twitching on the floor.
I reach for him. He lets me. Fingers tight, grounding.
“You did it,” I whisper.
“No,” he says, voice low. “They did it. I ended it.”
