Page 145 of Black Castle

“H-hey,” she stutters, her voice a breathless tremor. One hand fists the hem of her jean skirt, the other dragging through her hair, nails scraping against her scalp.

“Well, hello.” Zev’s voice is velvet-dipped poison, thick with something rotten. His hand—coated in blood—presses the phone to his ear as his other hand wrenches the dagger from Ian Griswyk’s thigh. His blade exits with a sickening, wet sound, and Ian—too weak to scream—whimpers.

“W-where are you?” Vivienne asks, her trembling hand hovering over her mouth, then scrubbing her face before diving into her hair again.

“Good question.” Zev drags a chair closer and sinks into it, his gloved fingers flexing around the dagger’s handle. Blood slithers down the steel, fat crimson drops hitting the floor in rhythmic succession. “Where are we all and where are we heading anyway?”

Frustration coils tight in Vivienne’s chest. She peels the phone from her ear, staring at the screen as if it will somehow reveal the truth he is hiding. “Zev,” she grits, pressing the phone back against her ear. “Where are you? No, what are you doing?”

“Currently or…?” He lets the word stretch, teasing.

His gaze drifts to the pack of Marlboro on the table, a discovery from earlier. Mood shifting, he rises, retrieves a cigarette from the nearly empty pack, and slots it between his lips.

“Currently, Zev.” Her voice sharpens, a bite of frustration leaking through.

He notices her tone. Snarky. Demanding.

She will pay for that.

“I’m,” he exhales a slow, deliberate breath, eyes drinking in the sight of Ian—pale, shivering, cradling the mangled leg like a kid clutching a broken toy. “I’m in a house, watching a murder documentary.”

“A murder documentary?” Her brows furrow. She takes the phone from her ear, checks the screen, and then presses it back, confusion knitting tighter around her bones.

“Mhmm.” Zev digs his pocket for his zippo, pulling it out and lighting the end of his cigarette. He sinks back into his seat, legs crossing over the other.

Vivienne clings to the possibility that he is being literal. That he is merely watching, not orchestrating. That there is still a chance to stop him.

“I know you are angry, okay?” She forces persuasion into her voice, though it wobbles like a leaf in a storm. “I know but please, don’t hurt him.”

Zev stills. His jaw tightens. His fingers flex. Something dark and festering crawls up his throat, thick and suffocating.

“Can you hear me?” she presses when silence stretches too long.

His grip on the phone tightens. The bitter taste of jealousy seeps into his mouth like bile. His breath turns low and heavy, each one an ember feeding a growing inferno.

“Yes.”

“It’s not him,” she pleads. “It’s me. If you want to punish anyone, it’s me. Please just leave Ian alone. Don’t do anything to him. Don’t hurt him, please don’t, I’m begging you.”

A sound bubbles in Zev’s chest—a grotesque hybrid of laughter and rage. His free hand trembles, a foreign sensation, as his fury thickens into something unbearable.

How dare she? How dare she beg for mercy on his behalf?

The fire in his chest ignites into an unholy blaze. His vision blurs, tinted red, black, red.

This is her fault. She opened her legs for another man. She lets another man’s hand wander where only his should touch. She lets another taste what only belonged to him.

She is his, but another man touched her. And she dares to command him? Tell him what to do? How to handle his rage?

Zev’s fingers dig into the dagger’s hilt until his knuckles turn white. His lips curl, eyes deadened by something bottomless and bleak.

“Zev,” she whispers, her voice cracking under the weight of his silence. He can hear the tears clinging to her throat, and can almost taste her despair.

“Don’t hurt him.”

She is still fucking giving orders.

His lips twitch into something cruel. “Okay,” he murmurs, then ends the call.

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