Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 16: Were you gonna rehab him too?

Then she went limp—eyes fluttering shut, body slack. Dreck paused, crowbar hovering, grin spreading. "Down already?" His laugh rumbled, bending closer—fatal slip. Her eyes flared open, amber burning, and her teeth sank into his wrist—vicious, deep, blood welling as she tore free, spitting red. Dreck screamed, arm flailing, and she lunged—tackling him down, pinning his shoulders with her knees, scarred hands clawing his throat.

Kael hauled up, blood dripping, and struck—fist crashing Dreck's cheek, Resonance igniting, pain searing through the thug's skull like a blade. Dreck howled, thrashing, but Rhea held—knees grinding his arms, t-shirt stained with sweat and blood, her grip iron. Kael punched again—jaw, ribs, chest—each hit a pulse of agony, Resonance twisting nerves, Dreck's bellows breaking into whimpers.

Blood smeared the tiles, slick and dark, and Rhea's hands shifted—fast, feral—grabbing his head, twisting hard.

CRACK

A bone crunching sound rang out, crisp and final, his neck breaking under her scarred fingers.

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Silence slammed down, heavy and thick, broken only by their gasps—ragged, wet, filling the wrecked kitchen. Dreck's body slumped, eyes blank, crowbar limp beside him, blood pooling slow around his head. Kael sank back, chest heaving, blood crusting his knuckles, nose throbbing, shoulder a dull roar. Rhea knelt there, crimson hair plastered to her face, t-shirt clinging damp, black panties stark against her trembling legs—dust and blood streaking her skin. Her amber eyes burned, wide and fierce, flicking from the corpse to Kael, breath shuddering out in bursts.

The kitchen lay in carnage—counter dented, stove crumpled, tiles cracked and red-smeared, glass glinting like scattered stars. Kael's pulse hammered, adrenaline bleeding out, leaving a hollow ache, and Rhea's hands shook—scarred, slick with Dreck's blood—as she wiped them on the t-shirt, crimson blooming across white. They stared, the weight crashing in—death's stink, their hands' work, a line crossed in the chaos.

Her voice sliced through, low and rough, laced with a jagged edge. "Were you gonna rehab him too?" She didn't look up—eyes locked on the body, chest still heaving, defiance masking the tremor beneath.

Kael exhaled, a harsh rasp, swiping blood from his nose with a wince.

"Hadn't decided," he muttered, voice raw, hazel eyes glinting with a dark, bruised humor. He met her gaze, steady through the pain, and the air thickened—death a bridge between them, their bond forged in its heat, unspoken but unbreakable.

Blood hung thick in the air, a metallic tang that coated Kael's tongue with every breath. It pooled slow around Dreck's corpse, dark and glossy, seeping into the cracked tiles where his body sprawled—head lolled at a sick angle, neck twisted sharp, dead eyes gaping at the ceiling like he'd caught a glimpse of hell on the way down.

The kitchen was a battlefield's grave—wood splinters jutted from the busted doorframe, the counter sagged with a dented edge, pots and glass shards glittered in the dim light, a testament to a fight that ended too fast, too final.

Kael loomed over the mess, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose, the other clutching an ice pack that stung cold against his swollen knuckles. Pain throbbed in his ribs, a dull ache from Dreck's fists, and his jaw clicked when he shifted it—bruised, maybe cracked.

He exhaled hard, breath fogging in the chill, and muttered under his teeth, "Never fucking ends, does it?" His hazel eyes flicked over the body—scarred face slack, crowbar limp beside a hand that'd never swing again—and a tired grin tugged his busted lip, sharp with gallows mirth.

Across the room, Rhea perched at the table, legs crossed casual on a chair, digging into the takeout Kael had dropped. The burger bag sat grease-stained beside her, fries scattered like shrapnel as she tore into a sauce smearing her scarred fingers, crimson hair falling wild over her shoulders. His white t-shirt clung damp to her frame, streaked with Dreck's blood and her sweat, the hem riding high over black panties that flashed stark against her thighs. She slurped a fry, licked sauce off her thumb, and chewed loud—utterly unbothered by the corpse five feet away, its stink mixing with the food's salt and fat.

Kael watched her, half-amazed, half-exhausted, and fished his phone from his pocket. The screen glowed harsh against the gloom, and he scrolled fast—past Liss's cryptic texts, past parlor bookings—stopping at Harris. His thumb hovered, a beat of doubt tightening his chest, then punched the call. Two rings buzzed, sharp in the silence, before a gruff voice growled through.

"Drayce. Tell me you didn't fuck up again."

Kael snorted, wincing as his nose twinged—ice pack slipping, cold biting his skin. "Need a cleanup," he said, voice low, clipped, like he was ordering takeout instead of a corpse removal.

A pause stretched, thick and heavy, then Harris barked, "What?"

Kael's gaze slid to Rhea. She ripped a chunk of chicken free with her teeth, sauce glistening on her lips, amber eyes glinting as she caught his stare—daring him to flinch. He didn't. "Got jumped," he said into the phone, rolling his shoulders, ribs groaning in protest. "Thug broke in. Fight went south. He's dead now."

"Christ, Kael." Harris's voice sharpened, a saw blade through static. "What're you doing tangling with villains? You quit—swore off that hero shit. Or was all that 'I'm done' noise just hot air?"

Kael's jaw tightened, ice crackling as he pressed it harder to his nose—blood crusting, copper sharp in his throat. "I'm out. This bastard came to me—busted my door, thought he'd rob the place blind. Then heard Rhea yelling, figured I was some psycho with a captive." He shook his head, hair sticking to his sweaty brow. "Didn't hunt trouble. It kicked my lock in."

Harris sighed, long and ragged, the sound of a man too tired for this dance. "Where the hell are you holed up? Who is Rhea? You never said where you ran off to after the hospital."

Kael leaned against the counter, steel cool through his jacket, watching Rhea slurp another fry—her bare foot tapping the chair, blood smears drying on her knuckles like war paint. "Rehab joint," he said, casual as if naming a diner. "For villains. Call it 'The Haven'—old block near the industrial pits."