Page 64 of Cruel Deception
The man’s screams echo, raw, desperate.
Cassian turns to the third, ripping his tape free. “You watched, didn’t you? Held her other arm, enjoyed the show.”
He grabs a pair of pliers from a nearby table, snapping them open and shut, the metal clinking.
“Let’s see how you enjoy this.” He clamps the pliers on the man’s finger, twisting slowly, the crack of bone sharp, the man’s howl piercing.
“Every scream you stole from her,” Cassian says, his voice steady, “I’ll take from you tenfold.”
He moves to the next finger, then the next, each crack louder, the man’s pleas dissolving into incoherent sobs.
I watch, my tears drying, a dark satisfaction blooming.
Cassian’s methodical, his cruelty a mirror to their own, but it’s for me, a twisted gift.
He returns to the middle man, grabbing a vial from the table—acid, I realize, as he uncaps it. “You took her body,” he says, his voice low, lethal. “Now you lose yours.”
He pours a drop onto the man’s hand, the skin sizzling, the man’s scream guttural, his body convulsing.
Cassian doesn’t flinch, pouring another drop, then another, each burn a calculated torment, the man’s flesh blistering, his cries fading to whimpers.
The other two erupted in panic, their voices stumbling over each other—
“We didn’t know she was yours!”
“We didn’t mean to—we thought she was just some girl—”
“If we knew she belonged to you, we never would’ve touched her!”
Their desperation thickened the air, the reek of fear suffocating. But Cassian didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even glance their way, his focus on the middle man, now slumped, barely conscious.
He grabs a hammer, its head heavy, and kneels. “You broke her,” he says, raising it. “Now you break.”
He swings, shattering the man’s kneecap, the crunch sickening, the man’s scream cut short as he passes out.
Cassian moves to the others, breaking bones—wrists, ankles—with precise, unhurried strikes, their screams a symphony of pain, their bodies slumping one by one, blood pooling beneath them.
He turns to me, his white suit still impossibly pristine.
His blue eyes glint, not with rage but with something darker. “They took your voice, Charlotte,” he says, his voice a low, velvet growl, “so let’s take theirs.”
He strides to a metal table in the corner, its surface cluttered with tools, and picks up a small, gleaming scalpel, its edge catching the dim light. “Permanently.”
My breath catches, my tears slowing as I clutch the gun, my heart a war of fear and fascination.
Cassian kneels before the middle man, now conscious again, his eyes wide with terror.
The man gasped, “No, please. Please!”
Cassian ignores him, gripping his jaw with one hand, forcing his mouth open. “You spoke filth to her,” he says, his tone chillingly calm, “called her worthless as you broke her.” He positions the scalpel at the man’s tongue, the blade hovering, a silent promise.
The man thrashes, his screams garbled, but Cassian’s grip is iron. With a flick, he slices, precise, surgical, blood spraying as the man’s tongue falls to the floor, a wet thud. His scream is a choked gurgle, his body convulsing, ropes creaking.
Cassian did the same for the other two.
I stare, my sobs quieting, a dark thrill coursing through me.
