The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout.
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out.
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

— "The Itsy Bitsy Spider."

***

Dami,

I don't have much time. In about an hour, I'm going to buy fish from Jo. I'm handing him this journal, and I'll tell him to give it to you. I trust him—I'll explain why.

It's been a few weeks since Oslo—since I learned the truth about you.

Lucifer lets me duck into a convenience store for tampons and snacks while he chain-smokes outside. He's picked up cigarettes again and, of course, blames me. Says I stress him out. Sure. That's why his lungs are turning to ash.

Inside the store, I notice you. A glossy photo on a magazine cover—arm-in-arm with Mysty Sparkles, another OnlyFans starlet with silicone-perfect curves, and a wild fan base I'd only heard about back home. Seeing her next to you, dressed like a red carpet fantasy, made something sharp puncture my gut. I felt like I'd swallowed wire.

I ask a guy next to me to translate. He tells me it was about some famous billionaire—his wife died months ago, and he's dating again.

I almost throw up. Right there in the store. Whoever you buried wasn't me.

But I keep my face blank. Get back in the car with Lucifer beside me like nothing happened. Smile through lunch. Force a conversation about the weather. Pretend I'm not breaking apart.

The hardest part? Not running.

Harder still? Knowing if I try, he'll catch me. Again.

Yeah—again. I tried running from home and onto the road a few weeks ago. I thought I'd escape. But the road was empty. Not one single vehicle passed except for the bodyguard's car. He figured I had snuck past him. I sure got the raw end of the stick when Lucifer slammed me against the wall—left side: shoulder, neck, and skull. Felt like I'd been hit by a truck and set on fire. Couldn't move for days.

Each time I run, he finds me. Like he's got some tracker buried in my skin. I don't know how. And when he catches me...

The beatings come next.

He hits. He grabs my hair. Forces me to do things I don't even want to put in ink. But I will—because you need to know. He shoved my face into his groin once, grabbing a fist full of my hair, making me choke on his 'magic wand' until I couldn't breathe. I bruised. My scalp burned for days. He doesn't care.

He watches me suffer. Watches my pain. And feels nothing.

He's attractive, sure—on the outside. On the inside? A void. He's not human. He's a shell made in hell.

When he disappears into the restroom at the Oslo restaurant, I borrow a pencil from the waitress and scribble a note on a paper napkin to Sofia, begging her to tell you I'm alive. I plead with the woman to take the note to the Oslo Police Department. She reluctantly takes it.

Then Lucifer walks back in, and I pick up my fork, pretending I'd been eating the whole damn time. His swagger switches on, and his hands are shoved into the pockets of his Gucci pants. Like he's some fucking supermodel. I watch women eye him the same way they'd stare at you. With awe. Hunger. Worship. The kind that could bring a heart to a dead stop.

They don't know he's from hell.

Oh—want to know his weakness?

He's terrified of tarantulas.

Remember the Chilean rose tarantula you wanted in our local pet store? You said she was sweet, docile—more afraid of us than we were of her. Her little feet moved like whispers across our skin as she crawled from my hand to yours.

"She kills all the gross stuff—cockroaches, mealworms, silkworms," you said, smiling like it was the best sales pitch in the world.

"And if I piss her off?" I had asked.

You were so focused on that fuzzy little arachnid in your hand. "She'll run before she bites. But if she has to fight, she'll kick off those tiny belly hairs—they burn like hell if they hit your eyes."

I still wasn't sold. "What if she bites?"

"You'll live," you said. "We'll put her back in her terrarium. She's misunderstood, that's all. No worse than Diva." Our drama-queen dog. You had a thing for misjudged creatures.

You never saw them as monsters. You saw beauty in the things everyone else feared.

You saw purpose in the dark.

So get this—

We're strolling through Oslo Airport while waiting for our flight to Stavanger. They've got a student climate expo going on. Glass terrariums full of arachnids are on display.

One of them is a Chilean rose.

I stop.

Lucifer doesn't.

He freezes. Pulls me hard. Sweat trickles down his temples. He's staring at that spider like it's the devil.

"What's the matter?" I ask, all fake-innocent. "It's just a spider."

"That's the nastiest thing I've ever seen. It doesn't belong here."

"Neither do I," I whisper. "I don't belong here."

We still have time before the flight, but he bolts to the gate. Sits stiff during the entire trip. Silent. Twitchy. Scratching his arms like something's crawling under his skin.

I hum "Itsy Bitsy Spider," the lullaby I used to sing to Dawn. My fingers crawl down the air like little legs, mimicking the movements I used to create to make her giggle. I can't stop smiling.

Lucifer pinches my thigh and glares at me. "Never do that again. I hate spiders. Especially tarantulas."

My grin widens.

Good to know.

***

I guess my SOS note went nowhere, so I'm trying again. I asked Jo for help while buying fish from him a few days ago.

"Spring's late." He glances at the snow-covered peaks across the fjord. His breath ghosts into the air and vanishes.

"It's fucking freezing," I mutter, flexing my fingers like the cold's trying to crack them open. Thank God for gloves.

"That bruise under your eye. Did Egil do that to you?" Jo squints, studying my face.

I glance at the bodyguard. He's far enough not to hear—too busy flirting with a woman he clearly knows. He's grinning like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Bingo. Time to talk.

"Egil's a psycho maniac. He bought me from an enemy. Have you heard of Damian Scott from SQ Enterprise?"  I take a deep breath, hoping Jo knows the name.

He nods. "Scott and Quinn, sure. Two of the wealthiest families out there. Orion Energy is huge in Stavanger and rivals Egil's business."

I exhale hard—no more lies. "My name is Chloe Carter. Damian Scott is my husband."

Jo's mouth falls open. "Impossible. His wife's dead."

I shake my head fast. "No, I'm here. Alive. You have to believe me. Look at this."

I pull off my left glove and show him my hand. "This is the mark of human trafficking."

Jo stares at the mutilated fingertip.

I hug my stick-thin frame. "The woman who married Damian was rounder, curvier, with darker, longer hair. I'm skin and bone now, and most of my black hair is gone. What's left is a choppy, light brown bob."

"Egil's done a good job making you less recognizable. I believe you," Jo says after a long pause. "How can I help?"

"The next time I come, I'll give you my journal. Everything's in it. Can you get it to the police in Stavanger or Oslo? The local cops here are in Egil's pocket."

Jo smiles, the bristles of his beard catching the cold sunlight. "I can do better. I'm visiting a relative in Oslo. He knows a guy who runs a pub and works with the police on the quiet. Helps people in trouble. You bring me that journal, and I'll personally deliver it."

I glance over my shoulder. The brick shithouse puts out his cigarette as the woman walks away from him.

"Tell this guy the journal has to reach Damian Scott," I say, leaning closer. "If he can't find Damian, then Agent Sofia Hahn. She's a federal agent in Lester Harbor. Sofia's the only cop I trust. If the journal gets to her, I've got a real chance."

Jo passes me two bags—salmon and prawns—as if this conversation is nothing more than routine business. "Bring the journal next time," he mutters. "Hide it well."

"There's something else." My voice lowers as an ache rises in my throat. "The journal isn't just for me. It's Nuk's only way out. I think Egil plans to kill her soon."

Jo's smile fades. His jaw tightens as I wave goodbye.

***

Dami,

If you're reading this, Jo kept his word.

Get help. Fast. For Nuk. For me. For every woman Saira and Mike trafficked, tortured, or buried.

This nightmare your mother ran?

Shut it down.

***

Damian hadn't slept. He dozed in restless stretches, tossing and turning in the unfamiliar guest bed, haunted by Chloe's voice etched into every page of that journal.

Every word was a wound.

He kept seeing her face—defiant, even in pain. Bruised, bloodied, burning with the same fire that once lit up every room they walked into together. That fire was still there. Caged now. Dimmed. But not out.

He rolled out of bed at six. Showered in silence, scalding water barely doing a thing for the weight lodged on his muscled shoulders.

After toweling off, he pulled on clean clothes—dark jeans, a gray henley, and a black jacket—before putting on a fresh pair of brown contact lenses. They were a little uncomfortable, but comfort wasn't a luxury he gave himself anymore. Not when Chloe had been living a fucking nightmare.

Voices from the kitchen drifted down the hall—light, warm, animated.

He walked in and immediately saw them.

Sofia stood by the counter, comfortably in an oversized shirt—Billy's. Coffee mug in one hand, her other arm brushing his as they shared a bowl of cereal. Giggling. Whispering. Smiling like time and distance hadn't split them.

Billy reached for a spoon while his other hand grazed Sofia's hip. She didn't move away. Their smiles said everything.

Damian rolled his eyes. "Glad someone had a restful night."

Billy beamed blinding sunshine. "Don't be jealous, mate."

"I'm not." Damian lifted an eyebrow and shot a dark scowl.

Sofia smirked into her coffee. "I already called Astrid," she said, breezing past Damian's glower. "We're meeting her at the airport. She's arranged fast-track clearance. No security checks, no questions asked."

He gave a tight nod. He wasn't sure if he was more annoyed that Sofia had handled things while he slept—or that she was distracted by a second-chance romance with a man who wore socks with sandals indoors and kept a Siamese fighting fish as a pet.

Sofia caught Damian's narrowed gaze. "Don't even say it. I can multitask."

"Playtime's over," Damian responded flatly, his gaze sliding between Sofia and Billy. "We need to focus."

Billy drained his coffee, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nick called earlier. He wanted to speak to you."

"Billy said you'd wake up any time soon, so we're expecting Nick's call," Sofia added.

Damian didn't bother replying. He turned toward the coffee pot, his patience thinning by the second, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar.

Billy's phone buzzed across the table after a silent moment. He glanced down, then quickly handed it over. "It's Nick."

Damian accepted the phone, placing his unfinished coffee on the kitchen counter. "Uncle."

"Billy filled me in earlier. He told me about Paradise," Nick said. "You're going in there?"

"Yeah. Nina Skov owns it. She's one of Egil's outer-circle fixers. I'll set it up so they have to bring Chloe in after my meeting. As Kasper, I'll bargain for her. I'll buy her from Egil, offer a price they can't refuse. When I see Chloe face-to-face, Sofia and Astrid will close in with a raid."

A heavy pause rose from Nick's end. "Tell me what you need."

Damian didn't hesitate. "Ammo. Anything you can get me. I'm not going anywhere until I have Chloe safe—and I don't care how many bodies I have to drop to make it happen."

Nick drew a deep breath. "All right. I talked to Jason Zhou recently. He has a contact, Lise Moe, an investor in football clubs. Zhou's hotel chain sponsors them when their players go international. They stay at his hotels worldwide for free."

Damian's jaw clenched tighter. "And your point?"

"Lise's partner runs an artillery club. Some gear's legal, some isn't. Guns, knives, ammo—she's your connection."

"How do I reach her?" Damian asked.

"You don't. Billy will."

Damian's eyes drifted to Billy teasing Sofia about her coffee obsession. She laughed, swatting his hand away with a familiarity that sparked Damian's irritation all over again.

"Billy's keeping you steady?" Nick asked quietly.

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing a slow breath. "He is."

"Good." Nick's voice hardened. "Don't go anywhere without backup."

Damian ended the call without responding.

An hour later, after breakfast and the necessary logistics—Sofia gearing up at her place, Billy making calls—everything was in motion. Damian stood at the door, jacket on, shoulders squared, already planning who would bleed first.

This was it.

Time to climb up again.

Time to kill.

Billy's phone buzzed, slicing through the silence. He checked the screen—the ease fell from his face like a mask dropping.

Damian caught it instantly. His tone snapped to a stern command. "What's going on?"

Billy looked up, pale and tight-lipped.

"Jo sent a message. Something's happened to Chloe."

***

A/N: Again, these characters are taking me on a new tangent but on the same journey toward the end. 

What do you think of handsome hunks who love snakes, spiders, and scorpions? Would you date a guy with a pet tarantula?