Chapter 23

A fter stripping him of his clothes, they secure his wrists and ankles to a bed in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs.

He thrashes with renewed strength, covered in sweat and blood. Sinclair observes me, but I ignore his concern as I scan the room for ways to get creative. A chair sits tucked into a desk beside a mahogany bookshelf.

With a growing smirk, I cross the room, pull the chair out, and kick at the legs until one breaks off, resembling a stake that’s ready to inflict damage. The men in the room study me curiously, except for Elijah, who is watching something on his phone with that sadistic glint in his eye—and by something, my guess is torture porn. I might have suggested therapy to his father once or twice when Elijah was a kid. Back then, he enjoyed carving up living things, but Sinclair just shrugged it off and laughed. I used to join in because, let’s face it, we’re all fucked in the head. The Exodus made sure of it.

“I would start praying if I were you,” I say as I walk over to Beaumont.

He really is a pathetic sight, with his tiny dick and retracted balls seeking safety inside his body because he’s that scared.

Sweat pours down his temples as he lifts his head to look at the broken chair leg in my hand.

I’ll admit I haven’t improvised like this before. Usually, I let one of the Pawns do the torturing or simply shoot the motherfucker between the eyes. I rarely feel the urge to inflict damage or kill; such baser instincts are beneath me, but tonight is a completely different ballgame. Violence runs through my veins like a poison, and blood pumps through my arteries at a frightening speed.

As I watch him tremble with rampant terror, throwing furtive glances at the other men in the room, I imagine a million ways to slaughter him slowly.

Did Cecilia meet him in secret?

I swear my eye ticks when I think of him beating her and putting his filthy hands on her body.

“What are you going to do with that broken leg?” His voice cracks with nerves on the last note as he tugs on the restraints.

“What involvement did my wife have in your little plan?” My voice is so calm, even I’m surprised.

Elijah lifts his head in my periphery, mildly curious.

“What do you want me to say?” Beaumont asks, as I toss the wooden leg on the bed and fish out a Swiss Army knife from my pocket.

“The truth. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make your death swift.”

“You won’t get away with this. The Exodus will turn against you if you kill one of their members outside of the Reckoning.”

With a hum, I slip out the blade before pressing it into his thigh and dragging it down his leg, splitting the skin open to reveal sinew and flesh.

No one flinches at the raw, tortured screams bouncing off the walls. No one moves an inch.

“As you can tell, Beaumont, I’m beyond fucking caring about the Exodus or the repercussions of cutting your dick from your body. You should be more concerned about what I’ll do to you before I end your miserable life. You see, we have Pawns stationed to ensure no one disturbs us until I’m done with you. And by done, I mean you’re unrecognizable and in countless pieces.”

Blood bubbles from the deep gash in his thigh, so I order one of the Pawns to put pressure on the wound while I debate my options. I could torture him for hours until he loses consciousness and then wait for him to wake up before doing it again. Alternatively, I could fuck him up now and return to Cecilia. God knows I want to teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget for lying to me and meeting up with Beaumont.

The mere thought has me sliding out the corkscrew attachment and ramming it into Beaumont’s eyeball. Violence it is. His endless wailing drowns out the squelching sound, but it does little to soothe the war inside me. Nothing but complete destruction can touch the madness oozing from my every pore.

I yank the corkscrew out. “What involvement did my wife have in your plan?”

“Nothing.”

I jab him in the side with the weapon, driving it deep, and blood rushes to the surface, soaking into the bedspread. I pull it out, and then I do it again and again, stabbing him where I know it’ll hurt like a motherfucker but also keep him alive until the beast inside me grows bored. When I finally come up for air, he looks like pale, sweaty Swiss cheese.

As I round the bed, I flip out the scissors. “I want you to start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

And he does.

While I snip the skin between each finger and toe, he screams, jumbles his words, and pleads for his life. But he also sings like a lark.

“You don’t look so good,” I point out as I reach for the wooden stake with my bloodied fingers. “It would be a shame if you passed out on me now. We don’t want you to miss all the fun we’re yet to have.”

He struggles to focus on me with his one good eye, croaking, “Kill me. You promised?—”

Feeling the stake’s weight in my hand, I tsk. “Looks like we both lie.”

The others haven’t spoken, silently observing this unhinged, crazed version of myself. It makes me laugh to see blood coating every inch of my hands. My shirt is stained with it, too. Hell, I can smell it smeared on my face.

My smile falls. “You were going to rape my wife after you had finished beating her for your own damn amusement.”

“No, that’s not?—”

“Don’t lie. You were going to stick your filthy dick inside her.”

His head shakes weakly as he sobs, pleading with me. “No?—”

Another scream erupts from his cracked lips when I ram the splintered end of the stake inside his rectum, shredding him to pieces. “Let’s see how you like it.”

The veins in my blood-splattered forearms pop as I violate him with the stake. I don’t feel anything besides this blinding fury that burns me up from the inside. I’m so damn numb; nothing except my wife’s tight pussy has the power to resurrect me from the ashes.

After I rip the blood and shit-soaked stake from his ass, I throw it down beside him. He’s barely conscious as I carve into him with the knife, but that doesn’t stop me from skinning him alive or removing his inner organs, one by one, and placing them around his body.

By the time Sinclair finally clears his throat with an arched brow, I’ve got Beaumont’s heart in one hand after prying his chest cavity open. He jerks his chin for the others to leave, and they sidle out. Elijah smirks at me before disappearing out the door.

Sinclair approaches me with a careful air about him. “He’s dead, Darian.”

I stare at the carnage before me, unblinking and uncomprehending. I never lose control like this, never give in to the terrifying darkness, yet here I am, with a man’s innards pooling around my expensive, polished shoes and his heart clutched in my palm.

Sinclair puts his big hand on my shoulder. “Cutting him into pieces won’t bring your family back.”

The heart trembles in my grip as I look him in the eye, lost and alone.

“It won’t bring you answers.”

When I still don’t respond, he takes the heart and drops it back inside the pried-open ribcage before pulling me in for a hug and slapping my back hard. This isn’t a bro hug. It’s a real one, and I cling to him, clutching his suit jacket tightly and staring at an invisible spot on the wall. My eyes burn and sting, but no tears fall.

He pulls back and holds me by the shoulders. “Whatever you need, I’m here just like I was then. You hear me? You’re not alone.”

I think I nod. I’m not sure. The next thing I’m vaguely aware of is being led outside, away from prying eyes, and guided to a waiting car. Cecilia is not here yet, so I wait in silence, staring at my crimson fingers.

When she finally enters the car, she spots my blood-soaked appearance, and her mouth falls open. She starts to speak but wisely snaps her mouth shut and stays silent for the duration of the journey home.

Once we arrive at the house, she slides her eyes in my direction at the bottom of the stairs, but I don’t have it in me to reassure her that everything is fine.

It’s not.

Nothing is fine. She went through my laptop and was ready to hand the sensitive information to Beaumont.

But she didn’t, a voice whispers in the recesses of my mind.

But she was going to, a different, more insistent voice counters.

“Go to bed,” I tell her, shoving my bloodied hands into my pockets.

She hesitates, peering back at me one final time before she turns and ascends the stairs. It’s obvious by her slumped shoulders that she wants me to talk to her about tonight, but I don’t have the energy. Not now.

I wait until she’s out of sight before entering the kitchen and making a beeline for the cellar. As I stomp across the small space, van der Meer’s cruel chuckle greets me. Sometimes, I forget that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness after so many years locked up down here, forgotten, unloved, and left to wither away.

“It looks like you finally cracked, huh? Lost your iron hold on that self-control you cling to so dearly.” He shuffles closer to the bars while I light the torch, and flames flicker wildly in the dim glow as he barks a harsh laugh. “Look at you, drenched in blood. How long did you keep him alive? An hour? Two? All night?”

My jaw tightens as I drop the box of matchsticks to the floor.

“How does it feel to be a monster, Darian?” he asks, gripping the bars with filthy hands. “We’re not so different, you and I.”

“Shut up!”

My wet, blood-soaked, and cold clothes glue to my skin as I walk closer and stare down at him with all the fury, disgust, and hatred I can dig up from the trenches of my tired soul. He doesn’t deserve to sully the air with his rancid breaths.

“Let me guess.” His eyes gleam as he peers up at me. “My daughter is the reason behind tonight’s bloodshed?” A rush of laughter disturbs the tense silence. “Only a woman can ruin a proud man like you, Darian Delacroix. It’s the universe’s cruel humor that it had to be my daughter.”

“SHUT UP!” I roar, spit flying from my mouth.

If anything, he laughs even louder. Crueler. “Look at you. Do you think she’ll ever love a monster like you?” Shaking his head regretfully, he presses his brow against the bars. “You’re not even a monster. You’re something worse. Something weak.”

Weak.

Weak.

Weak.

The word echoes in my head, and I crouch down, pulling hard at my hair as an intense throbbing pounds against my skull. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

“You hid while your mother was being raped again and again and again.”

“Please…stop.”

“And now you’re hiding from my daughter because you’re too afraid to let her see the real you.” His yellow teeth barely hang onto his gums as he peels his lips back in a condescending, belittling smile. “You’re weak.”

The way he enunciates the word makes my skin crawl with imaginary bugs. “I’m not weak!”

“Yes, you are. You couldn’t protect your mother then, and you can’t protect my daughter now. You would sooner hide”—he digs his finger into his temple—“in here than crawl out from your hiding place. You’re the weakest of the weak.”

Falling back onto my ass, I rock on the spot while shaking my head almost frantically to shut out his words.

“Scream, whore. Let your husband hear how much it hurts. And your kid, too. Where is that little brat? You hid him somewhere, didn’t you? HEY, KID! COME OUT, COME OUT, AND I’LL STOP HURTING YOUR MOM.”

Muffled, “No, Darian, don’t ? —”

A hard slap. “Shut your filthy mouth, slut!”

“She bled on my cock, Delacroix.” His sickening words drag me back from my memories. “And that was before my Pawns tore through her, too.”

“Just tell me what happened to her after you took her away.”

“You already know what happened. We killed her.”

With a final hard tug on my hair, I look at him through the haze of unshed tears. “How did she die? Give me the details.”

“So you can continue tormenting yourself?” He cocks his head curiously. “Isn’t it funny how the same thing unites you and my daughter?”

Confused, I lower my hands.

“She’s driven by the need for answers and revenge, just like you. What happened to her father? It’s nothing more than a scratched record, and why she’s here. Why she joined the Antichrist, and why she was at that party. ” He flashes another leery smile. “She has her daddy issues, and you have your mommy issues.”

“Stop fucking talking.” I almost shout the last word.

“Darian?” a soft voice comes from behind.

My eyes briefly close. Why did she follow me? I don’t want to have to hurt her, but she gives me no choice by being here, seeing her father?—

“Darian?” She flicks her eyes toward the cell and back.

“Weak,” her father whispers in a mocking voice.

I ignore him and turn to my wife, who has paled and is glancing nervously between me and her emancipated father.

Fuck. I try to stand, but I’m too damn exhausted. Defeat rolls off me in waves as I slump back down and rest my arms on my knees. “Go ahead and hate me.”

“Hate you?”

“For this.” I wave a hand at the cell.

“See how she looks at you now,” her father taunts in a low voice so only I can hear. “You think she’ll forgive you?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I roar at him, and my wife flinches, inching backward.

Noticing, I stiffen.

Is she trying to leave? No. She can’t leave me. She’s my wife. Mine. Fucking mine.

Shooting to my feet, I block the exit. “I’m sorry. I should have told you… I should have…” Words fail me as her eyes fill with glassy tears, which soon spill over and trail down her cheeks.

“I don’t even know why I didn’t just kill him. I was angry and?—”

“Kill who?” she asks, interrupting me mid-sentence.

Frowning, I look from her to her father, who shrinks back into the shadows with a taunting glimmer in his eye. “Your dad,” I start, but snap my mouth shut when I see her confused expression.

Jabbing a finger in the cell’s direction where her father’s legs peek out from the shadows, I say, “Aren’t you going to say something, Cecilia.”

She swallows audibly as she wraps her arms around herself.

“YOUR FATHER!” I roar, making her jump and hug herself tighter.

“Darian…” Her voice is so weak I have to lean in to hear her. Nervously, she wets her lips. “My father is dead.”

I rear back like I’ve been slapped. “Dead? No, he—” I look behind me, feeling lightheaded as I digest what she’s saying, but Cecilia’s hand on my arm brings me back to her. “He’s right there.”

“He died, Darian. Years ago.”