Page 14 of The Madness Within

Brielle Devoux, art gallery heiress, philanthropist, and predator hiding behind press conferences and couture.

She sipped champagne over their coffins and offered scholarships in their names. A monster with lipstick, teeth, and diamonds under her nails.

She had no idea someone worse was watching.

I trailed her in silence. No shadow too dark for me to slip into. No room too protected I couldn’t bleed through.

She killed to feel powerful. I killed to return balance.

And now it was her turn.

The penthouse was still. Glass walls overlooked the city, but the lights couldn’t reach the place she was kept now. Her bedroom had been transformed, no longer a sanctum of silk and secrets, but a temple for judgment.

She woke up bound to the bed frame in red silk cuffs, enchanted to tighten every time her pulse spiked. Her body arched violently, mouth gaping in a stitched scream. My thread, made from the hair of her victims, held firm.

Moonlight carved her in silver. She still looked like art.

But I came to dismantle masterpieces.

I stepped forward, slow, deliberate. A blade glinted in my hand. Not metal. Not steel. But forged from bone and betrayal.

“Still wearing red, I see,” I murmured, brushing her cheek with the back of my fingers. “Though I much prefer you in blood.”

She snarled through the stitches, a silent curse. I leaned down, lips at her ear.

“Save it, Brielle. You’ve said enough for one lifetime.”

She squirmed as my shadows slipped under the bed, up her spine, and into her skin. They poured in like smoke under a locked door, whispering to every bone she broke, every heart she drained, every family she ruined.

“They’re not here for mercy,” I said, circling her like a predator in velvet. “They’re here to listen. Tofeel.”

A flick of my wrist and her body convulsed, back arched like a bow as the shadows tightened around her ribs.

“I defended you. I stood beside you while you laughed at their names.” I reached down and dragged the bone-blade across her thigh. Her skin split neatly. No mess. Just precision.

Her eyes rolled. I waited until they came back.

“They called for help, Brielle. They screamed your name thinking you’d save them. But all you did was watch them drown in you.”

I reached into her chest, not physically. Not yet. My magic threaded itself into her nerves and started pulling.

One memory at a time.

The boy in the hotel. The one in the alley. The one she buried whole.

She thrashed harder, body jerking as if trying to escape her own mind.

Her blood painted the bed in slow, reverent strokes. I peeled her apart, layer by layer. Not for pleasure. For penance.

Each scream was a confession. Each twitch, a prayer.

I fed her pain to the room itself, let the shadows drink her guilt.

And then, finally, when she had no more memories left to hide behind, no more lies to curl into, I laid her bones out in the center of the marble floor.

Perfect. Balanced.

One rib for each boy.

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