Page 65 of Cruel Deception
Their silenced screams mirror my own from that club, their power stripped as mine was.
Cassian turns to me, the scalpel dripping, his eyes searching mine.
“Their voices are gone,” he says, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “Yours remains. Speak, Charlotte. Curse them. Let them hear you before they die.”
My hands tremble, the gun heavy, but his words ignite something raw.
I stand, my voice cracking but growing stronger. “You thought you’d ruin me,” I spit, glaring at the middle man, his face pale, blood streaming from his mouth.
“You’re nothing now. Less than nothing. You’ll die knowing I’m free, and you’re forgotten.”
I turn to the others, their gurgled moans fueling me. “You held me down, but I’m standing. You’re worms, bleeding out, and I’m alive.” My voice rises, a scream of rage and release, echoing off the concrete, their silenced eyes wide with terror.
Cassian nods, a flicker of approval in his gaze, and returns to the men.
He grabs a syringe from the table, filled with a clear liquid. “Adrenaline,” he says, glancing at me. “They won’t pass out. They’ll feel every second until their hearts give out.”
He didn’t rush. Just looked the man in the eye—and jabs the needle into the middle man’s neck, then the others, their bodies jerking, eyes bulging as the drug forces them awake, amplifying their pain.
I couldn’t pull the trigger.
But this—Cassian’s cruelty, their pain, my voice rising from the ashes—
This was vengeance.
This was a rebirth.
He steps back, their bodies slumped but alive, twitching in their ropes, blood and flesh a testament to his work.
“They’ll die slowly,” he says, his voice low, almost intimate, as he kneels before me, the scalpel discarded.
“For you.”
He takes my hand—blood still on his knuckles—and presses my palm to his chest, right over his heart. It’s steady. Brutal. Alive.
“Your pain,” he says quietly, “is not yours anymore. It’s mine. Like the rest of you.”
Something flickers in me. Not fear. Something far worse. Far weaker. A flutter in my stomach. A breath that caught. A heat didn’t understand.
I should hate him. But the way he said it—like a vow carved in bone—made something in me tilt. He wasn’t being tender. He was being claiming. Obsessed.
And I nodded, throat tight, unable to look away from him.
He’s a monster, but in this moment, he’s my monster, his cruelty a twisted gift that binds us tighter than any vow. The men’s gurgles fade, their lives slipping away, and I feel no pity—only power, reclaimed in their ruin.
“Happy birthday,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “May every scream today stitch you back together.
I nodded slowly, tears still sliding down my cheeks. “Thank you,” I whispered, staring at the man who held me captive. The man who had just gifted me vengeance.
Turns out, monsters make the best executioners.
He led me back inside. We didn’t speak. He was halfway to the door when he paused and turned slightly.
“I won’t be around today,” he said. “Business.”
A beat passed.
“Do you want to come with me?”
