Page 106 of Black Castle

A loud roar slices through the air like a primal cry of rage as she continues to stab the bed and the pillows over and over again until she is worn out.

Her breaths are shallow, sweat coating every part of her body as she collapses beside the bed. Then something snaps. It feels like a dark cloud finally moving to give way to the blue. It feels like a mask being pulled away from her eyes.

She can hear and she can see clearly now.

“Oh, my god!” The knife slips from her trembling hands, hitting the floor beside her with a loud thud. She raises her trembling hands to her eyes, her heart pounding.

These hands. These hands of hers. They almost took a life.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Vivienne’s head snaps to the other side of the bed where there is a brown chair Isadora usually sits on to go through criminal files whenever she is working from home.

And right now, Isadora is sitting there, legs crossed, a sinister smile on.

“You are just like him,” she says. “Like father, like daughter.”

“No.” Vivienne shakes her head, panic breaking through the haze of shock in her eyes. “No, no, no. I’m not. I’m not like him. I will never be like him.”

“Why not?” She raises a comical brow. “His blood burns fervidly in your veins, doesn’t it? His darkness lives inside you.”

“Stop!” Her hand flies to cover both of her ears. “Stop.” She roars, her chest burning.

Then, all of a sudden, a quiet settles around her, Isadora’s voice is gone. She cracks her eyes open. And though the brown chair is still there, Isadora is not.

She isn’t there. She was never there. It was all in her head. This is her conscience judging her, not Isadora.

And then she realizes it: that thing in her father’s head might be in her head, too.

Chapter Thirty-two

Vivienne

Oh, my god!”

Kenji’s voice shudders, barely a breath, yet thick with shock, fear, and anger that simmers low in his chest. His eyes are wider than she has ever since them as they track down her face, taking in every bruise, every cut, every fucking print Isadora left behind on her face. His eyes brew with a storm, emotions colliding, warring in the once brilliant orbs.

His white Biao Wang backpack slips off his shoulders, hitting the porch with a loud thud.

Vivienne’s grip tightens on the door as she waits, not so excited for the inevitable—his outrage, pity, the way he would want to look at her like something fragile, breakable…a victim.

“Well, are you coming in anytime soon?” Her voice is low, hoarse, as the words scrape out, dragging pain with them. Seven little words and each felt like she was swallowing a glass.

Kenji is still too shocked to move as his jaw clenches tight, a muscle ticking furiously.

Tired of holding the door open for him, she releases her grip and turns away, shoulders stiff, body aching. But before she can reach the three-seater couch, he is there, as though he teleported. He crouches in front of her, hands hovering over her swollen and bruised face, shaking, before finally pressing on her jaw gently.

But she jerks away. His touch is too warm, too gentle. And she doesn’t deserve it.

“This isn’t fair.” His voice is ragged, torn. His hands fall helplessly to his lap, curling into a fist so tight his knuckles go bone-white.

“Look at you.” He sucks in air, his eyes turning glossy. “How could she do this to you?” He trembles with restraint. “I’m not gonna keep quiet on this one.”

Her stomach knots.

“Don’t.” The word flies out, frantic, her hands cutting through the air between them as though she’s trying to swat away the thought he is having in his head.

Kenji stands abruptly as if trying to shake off something. “I need to take you to the doctor.”

“Are you kidding me?” Her eyes grow wide with horror. “You know fucking well I can’t go to some doctor.”

---