Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 68: Something Terribly Wrong

June – POV

Justin took my hand and started leading me toward the door.

We didn’t speak. Just walked. His grip was steady, firm—possessive in a way that should have scared me, but didn’t. Not yet.

We moved through the corridor, down a narrow set of stairs. The air shifted the deeper we went, growing colder, denser. Reeking of insecticides, bleach, and something sharper—like hospital-grade antiseptic clinging to forgotten sins.

The scent alone made my stomach twist.

But it wasn’t the smell that chilled me.

It was him.

Justin’s face wore this eerie grin, like he already knew how this night would end. His eyes caught the dim light, and there was a glint there—something wild, something wrong. His whole aura had changed. He didn’t feel like the boy who once curled beside me on the orphanage floor. Or even the version who kissed me with trembling lips in the dark.

No.

This was something else entirely.

Dark.

Dangerous.

Deliberate.

I’d never seen him like this before.

"I told you," he said quietly, almost too soft to hear. "If you want vengeance, I can give it to you."

I nodded before I even realized I was doing it.

He kept walking. So did I.

"You can stab him," he added, that crooked grin widening, "as many times as you want."

My heart kicked hard in my chest.

Because God, I wanted to.

The voices did too.

They were already whispering, climbing through my skull like static on full volume.

"Do it."

"Make him bleed."

"He doesn’t deserve a quick end."

But underneath the rage, there was something else. Something cold and trembling.

Fear.

Not of him. Not even of Justin.

But of me.

Of what I’d turned into the last time. Of the reaction I had after stabbing my father. The scream. The shaking. The blackout haze. The way my body didn’t feel like mine anymore.

I was afraid of what the voices could make me.

Afraid of what I could become if I let them loose again.

Still...

Still, I also wanted them quiet.

I wanted control.

I wanted to stop waking up to my own hands clenched in fists, my jaw locked tight from grinding my teeth in sleep.

I wanted to stop reliving the feeling of that countertop beneath me and the smell of his breath in my hair.

I wanted peace.

And Justin—this version of him, this darker, colder one—looked at me like he could offer it.

"If you embrace them," he said, voice low and coaxing, "if you just listen for once... they won’t hurt you. They’ll guide you."

I didn’t respond.

Not with words.

I was already listening.

They weren’t screaming now. They were... aligned.

Clear.

"You deserve revenge."

"You deserve a voice."

"He deserves to rot in hell."

But before he rotted, they added—

**"Make him pay."

"Make him feel it."

All those years.

All those nights.

All the times I cried into my pillow, begging my mother to just believe me.

All the times I bled and she said I tripped. Fell. Lied.

All the times he’d whisper that I was his favorite. That I should be grateful.

He needed to pay for it all.

Not just with death.

With suffering.

With fear.

With the look in his eyes when he realized the little girl he used to own had finally grown teeth.

I stopped walking.

Justin did too.

He turned to face me, his face still twisted in that dark, knowing smile.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

I looked into his eyes, into the void behind them.

And I whispered—

"Yes."

****

He opened the door.

And there he was.

Hanging from the ceiling—dangling by his wrists like a gutted animal—was him.

The man I had once called father.

The man who used to knock twice on my door before slipping inside with quiet footsteps and filthy hands.

Now, he was stripped naked. Pale. Filthy in a different way. His skin was covered in blood and sweat, and there was a sickly green hue to his skin like his body was rotting from the inside out. The eye I had stabbed with the fork was swollen shut—purple, red, raw. I doubted he could see from it anymore. Maybe he never would again.

Good.

His legs were slashed—deep, shallow, fresh, old. There were too many cuts to count. Some bled slowly, some were just scars now. But the worst part wasn’t the blood. It wasn’t the wounds.

It was what was missing.

His dick.

That disgusting part of him that had tormented me since I was too young to understand what he was doing—that part of him was gone.

Ripped away.

And I knew Justin had done it.

There was no one else who would have. No one else who could.

My breath caught in my throat. I stared. Not at the blood. Not at the gore. I’d seen worse in the labs, on myself, in the mirror.

No—I stared at the man.

The thing that used to haunt my nights.

The monster that had whispered "I love you" with blood on his teeth and sin on his fingers.

He didn’t look like a monster now.

He didn’t even look like a man.

He looked... pathetic.

Condemned.

A hollow body barely clinging to life.

A shell.

A broken thing.

Just like he had broken me.

Justin stepped beside me, his presence cold and electrifying. His shadow fell long across the floor, stretching toward my father like a demon laying claim.

He held something out to me.

A knife.

Small. Sharp. Clean.

It gleamed under the flickering light, like it was hungry. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

Justin didn’t say much.

"You’re free," he said, voice deep and calm. "Do whatever you want."

He leaned in, lips brushing close to my ear.

"Whatever the voices are telling you... let them speak."

And I could hear them. So loud now.

"Make him scream."

"Make him feel."

"He took your body—take his soul."

My hand trembled as I took the blade.

It was light. Too light for what I wanted to do.

I walked slowly toward him, the floor sticky with old blood beneath my bare feet.

His head lifted slightly. I don’t know how he managed it.

He tried to open his mouth.

But no words came.

There was nothing left in him. No pride. No fight. Just the faintest trace of the coward he’d always been, now laid bare in full.

And I...

I didn’t do it.

I couldn’t.

My hand hovered near his chest, the knife pressed against his skin, but I didn’t push it in.

The voices screamed at me.

"Do it."

"Kill him."

"Rip him apart like he did to you."

But I stayed still.

Because in that moment, the fear was back.

Not of him.

But of me.

Of what I’d become if I gave in completely.

Of what I might lose.

I wanted to hurt him. I did.

But I also wanted to feel clean again.

I wanted to breathe without this weight on my chest.

I wanted peace—not just revenge.

And I knew—deep down—that if I took that knife and tore it through his body like the voices begged me to... there’d be no going back.

So I dropped it.

The blade clattered to the ground with a dull, wet thud.

I stepped back.

Shaking.

Silent.

Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.

Justin’s eyes found mine. Something flickered in them. Surprise? Disappointment?

No.

Understanding.

He stepped forward, picked up the blade, and tucked it back into his coat.

Then he touched my face, gentle.

"Its alright even if you can’t do it," he murmured.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Not yet.

My father groaned softly—pathetic and weak.

But I didn’t look at him again.

I looked at Justin.

And for the first time that night...

I wasn’t afraid of the voices.

Not because they were quiet.

But because I knew I didn’t belong to them anymore.

******

The air was thick with blood, chemicals, and something else—something rotten and unnatural.

I stood frozen, heart thudding, as the knife slipped from my fingers.

And then... everything changed again.

Justin’s presence shifted.

Like a storm fading into silence.

His eyes lost that haunting gleam of rage, that monster-glow that had made my skin crawl and my pulse race.

He leaned in, gently. Almost lovingly. His fingers brushed my cheek, and then his lips were on mine—a soft kiss, a whisper against my mouth.

"It’s okay," he murmured.

But it wasn’t.

None of this was okay.

What he’d done... what he’d shown me... wasn’t vengeance. It was torture. Sadistic. Illegal. The kind of thing that made even my twisted, trauma-laced brain recoil.

I had thought—when he first offered me revenge—I thought maybe he’d rough him up. A few punches. Maybe a knife to scare him. Some pain, sure. A message.

But not this.

Not this.

What Justin did to my father wasn’t justice. It wasn’t even revenge.

It was art.

Painful, grotesque art, sculpted with care and cruelty.

The precision of the cuts. The missing... parts. The way he’d left the man alive—barely, just enough to breathe and suffer.

It wasn’t just about punishing him for me.

It was something else.

Something darker.

I looked up at Justin, and for the first time, I didn’t see the boy who kissed my scars or slept beside me in the orphanage.

I didn’t even see the raging boy who once screamed my name from inside a burning lab.

I saw a stranger.

And I was scared.

Terrified.

Because he didn’t even look sorry.

Not ashamed. Not even conflicted.

He looked... pleased.

Calm.

Like a man who’d just made a masterpiece.

And maybe, in his mind, he had.

But it was wrong. So wrong.

He’d carved my pain into someone else’s flesh and expected me to smile for it. To kiss him. To thank him.

And I...

I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even flinch when he touched me again.

I just smiled—faintly, carefully—and pretended everything was fine.

Because in that moment, I understood something horrible.

If I pushed him too hard...

If I said the wrong thing...

If I showed too much disgust...

He might turn on me next.

I’d seen what his hands could do.

What his mind could justify.

And even if I mattered to him—especially because I mattered—I knew how dangerous that could make him.

So I stayed still.

Let him hold me.

Let him believe I was grateful.

But inside?

Inside, I was screaming.

I had to leave.

I had to get out now.

Because this wasn’t about love or healing anymore.

This was something else.

Something with a face like Justin’s...

And the soul of a monster.