Page 146 of Black Castle

The room fills with a sound that is neither scream nor a cry but something primal, something that shouldn’t come from a human’s throat. It’s the sound of flesh parting, of agony, of justice carved into bone.

He drives the dagger into the other thigh, twisting.

The poor bastard sobs, body writhing in agony, his voice raw and strangled.

Zev watches, mesmerized, as blood pools, staining the floorboard and seeping into the cracks.

Next weapon will be the axe, chopping off his legs. He will severe it from the thighs—the fucking thighs she probably strapped as she rode his little cock.

Then his arms, the same ones that held her naked body flushed against him. The next will be his fucking fingers, the same fingers he probably drove into her pussy, or touched her face with, whisking away the wet hair matting to her face due to the sweat from all the fucking locomotive.

Then he will reach into his chest and carve out his heart with his bare hands, feeling its final beat in his palm.

Chapter Forty-five

Vivienne

Vivienne wakes up with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs. The mechanical alarm clock on her stands reads 10 PM, its full glow the only source of certainty in the dark.

A distant thud pounds in her chest, the exhaustion from earlier before she fell asleep still settled into her bones. Disoriented, she struggles to lift her head from the pillow, and she sees it, a shift in the shadow.

Her breath stutters when she catches the silhouette of a man sitting in the single armchair by the window.

“Oh, my god!” She bolts upright.

Her trembling hand fumbles for the bedside lamp. The yellow light flickers to life, peeling back the darkness just enough to reveal a familiar face.

Zev.

“Did I scare you, darling?” he asks, his voice low, amused. He exhales heavily as he rises from the chair, his movement slow, unhurried.

Vivienne can’t answer. Confusion tangles her thoughts, leaving her struggling to make sense of why he is here, in her room, at this hour.

Then, she sees the gift box in his hands. And the bloodstain smeared across it.

Her breath catches. The blood is on his hands too—dark, fresh, painting his pale skin in shades of crimson, like dark-red roses blooming in a Snow-covered garden.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she instinctively shifts back against the headboard.

Zev lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. Too close, his presence suffocating.

“You look so beautiful when you sleep, ladybird.” He reaches for her face, but she flinches away.

A smirk curls his lips, his sharp features cast in wicked amusement. The scream rising in her throat remains trapped beneath her fear.

His gaze flickers back to his hands. The stains are not just on his fingers. They streak up his wrist, splatter across his forearm, staining his crisp white shirt. And then she notices the faint smudges on his cheek, the dark splotches on the lower part of his chest and his collar.

It isn’t paint.

“W-what’s on your hands?” Her kneels pull up to her chest.

“Blood.” He gives a slow, deliberate glance down at himself before returning his gaze to her. A smile tugs at his lips, mocking, sinister.

“Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

Her stomach twists. “W-whose?”

The metallic scent of blood clings to the air, but beneath it, she picks up something else—smoke, like he has been near a fire.

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