8. Luella
Chapter 8
Luella
E ven as I lie there in my small bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, my mind won't settle. It isn't about me anymore, not just about Sophia. I thought it was enough, taking him down for what he did to her. That should’ve been enough. But I’d seen the folder. I’d seen those faces.
Dozens—no, hundreds of them .
Innocent girls. Staring back at me, their eyes hollow, lost. And it wasn’t just the girls either; there were men, documents, names I don't recognize but know enough about to send a shiver down my spine. This is bigger than I thought. Xavier Blackwood isn't just a monster who preys on broken girls. He is the damn puppet master, pulling strings on a scale I don't even want to think about.
I shift under the sheets, my senses on edge, listening for the usual sounds: the faint ticking of the old clock in the hallway, the rhythmic creaks of the house settling for the night. But tonight, everything feels off.
Everything .
My heart punches against my ribcage as I think about their faces again.
How many more like her? Like Sophia?
The mansion holds more than dust and darkness—and no amount of cleaning can save it. There are secrets rotting behind its grand curtains, buried beneath the polished floors.
And where there are secrets, there are hidden places.
I push the sheets aside, the weight of my decision settling in. My bare feet touch the cold floor, grounding me. There is something else in this place—something Xavier hasn't shown me. Maybe Colton hasn't even seen it. Which is hard to believe, considering that predatory stare of his that drills into me every time he is close enough to breathe in my direction. It has something to do with where Xavier had taken that poor girl, the one existing somewhere in this fucking house.
I need to find it. Whatever it is. I need to help her.
Slipping out quietly, every step I take feels like some kind of promise. A promise to every girl like Sophia. A promise that I won’t let those faces haunt me without doing something about it.
The hallway outside of my room seems untouched, even innocent—but who the hell am I kidding? There is nothing innocent in this house. I have to keep looking, have to keep digging, until I find something. Something big enough to burn this entire estate to the ground.
After all, I swore to leave this place in ashes.
I slip into the dark hallway, moving silently on the floorboards, my heartbeats louder than my footsteps. The walls seem to close in as I make my way past the grand staircase, deeper into the belly of the house. I head to the library, praying my hunch is right. When I was cleaning in here, I saw something, something that caught my eye.
Now, back inside the library, I see it again. The faint crack in the wall where the bookcase slides just enough to reveal a hidden entrance. My fingers tremble as I press inward. Air, cold and stale, hits me when it opens. It's like the house sighs, exhaling something it’s been holding too long.
Holy shit.
In the pitch dark, after my eyes adjust, I see the narrow stone staircase cutting below. A whisper of fear tells me to turn back—but I won’t.
I can’t.
For Sophia. For all the women he’s hurt.
I slip through the gap, letting the bookcase close behind me. It’s cramped here. Claustrophobic. My fingers brush the cool stone walls as I descend, like they’re closing in on me, trapping me here forever.
Each step down feels heavier, colder than the one before. Eventually, the stairs open out into a tight corridor. Just ahead, there’s something strange—faint light spilling from underneath a door. But that's not what makes my breath seize in my throat.
No—it’s the smell.
Old, like something dead, tucked away and forgotten. And something else—something rotten. My stomach churns, the acid at the back of my throat reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast, not that food would help me now.
I push the door open a crack, just enough to slide through without a noise. This room, it’s not what I expected. It’s worse.
The flickering light overhead casts shadows against the walls cluttered with dusty shelves and… things . Shelves packed with memories that don’t belong to me: a pair of shoes, too small, too delicate; an old leather satchel, covered in dust, the initials “L.M.” etched into the faded material; dresses limp and hanging from hooks like forgotten phantoms of lives lost to this house. Jesus . Each item feels like it’s caught in hell, waiting for someone to remember the name attached to it. To scream their existence into the cold air, to say they mattered.
My fingers tremble over a small ribbon, pink and fraying at the ends.
Too young, God, too damn young.
How long has all this been hiding behind these walls? No one knew. Fuck, that’s the point, isn’t it? No one ever knows.
I take another step forward, my breath shortening, trying to remain steady, until something sharp at the edges of my hearing stops me.
A sound.
Sobbing.
It’s faint, muffled almost, but unmistakable. A woman’s cry, choked back as if whoever it is has been crying for so damn long, her voice doesn’t even know how to make a proper sound anymore. My heart clenches. There’s someone still here. Is it the girl I saw?
I follow the sound through the narrow passage until my eyes zero in on another door—all rusted metal and thick bolts. There’s just enough of a gap to see through, just enough space to feel the tension building in my bones, creeping along my skin like a warning.
I can’t fucking look, I can’t.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes until it hurts, and I force myself to crouch, pressing my eye against the keyhole. The sight steals the air from my lungs.
Monitors. Everywhere.
What the actual fuck?
Flickering screens display every goddamn corner of this house—rooms I never realized were wired. And there, on one of the screens, the girl is huddled, locked up in some small, filthy room, knees tucked into her chest, sobbing quietly.
My God, it’s her.
I want to scream, to run, to tear through the passageway until I find her, but my body locks up, frozen on the spot.
That suffocating, predatory gaze I’d felt constantly feels even heavier now. I had been right to feel it, skin crawling every damn time the cameras stared too hard, lingered too long.
Fuck.
I choke back the bile rising in my throat, footsteps sounding too loud, as I turn away from the vile scene. I need to move.
Sobbing. Monitors. Eyes everywhere.
But who is watching?
I swear my limbs barely work as I turn from the monitors, the taste of those damn sobs still thick in my mouth. But something feels off . More off than usual, which—in this fucking place—is saying something.
I take one step. Another. Then?—
Thud.
My knee hits something. A wall panel, sinking just slightly under the pressure. Shit. The sound echoes through the narrow passage like a gunshot. For a second, all I can do is stand rooted to the spot, waiting for the house to react, to trap me here with the ghosts of those girls, with that damn sobbing. But the walls don’t close in. Not yet.
Instead, the panel slides open, revealing another door. Something about this one feels…different. Like it’s been used more recently. The hinges are too clean, too willing to move. My heart pounds harder, but fuck it— I can’t stop now. I push it open.
The moment I step through, I freeze.
A fucking staircase… going down.
My breath hitches. This has to be the monster’s lair. My gut twists and my instincts scream at me to leave, but I can’t.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say a silent prayer before heading down the cold, stone steps. Even the air is thicker here, harder to inhale.
When I finally hit the stone floor, my heart slams against my chest—because the scene in front of me commands it.
The room spreads out before me like a horror movie designed by a sadist. It’s a nightmare of chains, leather straps and restraints hanging like a spider’s web from the ceiling and walls. On the far side, an entire table laid out makes me whimper—scalpels, whips, knives, all gleaming under dim lighting.
Torture. This isn’t just some perverted fantasy—this... fuck!
I gag but choke it back. I knew it was bad, deep in my core, I knew it. But seeing it confirmed like this...it’s like a sick joke.
Don’t break now. Don’t you dare break now.
And then I see them, hanging on the walls. Photographs. Dozens of them. Women. Girls. Broken, abused, captured in moments of torment.
“Fuck...” I whisper, gritting my teeth.
My hands shake violently as I trace my fingers over the images, twisting my insides. Their pain is so palpable.
I step forward, unable to help it. My feet pull me closer, closer. I owe it to them, to the women. “I see you,” I murmur, tears filling my eyes.
Who could even survive this?
And then I see her.
The world fucking stops. My vision blurs, ears ringing as my eyes lock onto the face that shouldn’t be here.
Sophia.
My sister.
Her smile used to light up a room, her eyes so full of life. Now, those same eyes stare back at me from the photograph, swollen, empty, haunted...and I can’t breathe. The girl in this photo is a stranger, and yet, she’s the sister I loved more than anyone. And I let this happen.
It feels like someone’s knifed me right between the ribs. The bile in my throat surges up, burning as I fight it back, tears threatening to spill.
Fuck. Fuck!
I clutch the edge of a nearby table, knuckles white, sucking in air like it’s being fed to me through a straw. It’s too much— it’s too fucking much.
“Xavier…” I whisper, voice tight and cracking at the edges. I knew it. I never doubted it, but seeing this? Everything I’ve held together—barely—starts falling apart. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him over and over for this.”
Sophia.
She deserved better. She should still be here. Alive .
But that isn’t all. No—there’s more .
My fingers cling to the photograph’s edge, pulling it free as I swipe my eyes over the others. Faces I don’t recognize, until… him .
Colton .
I squint at the photo, hoping—praying—that it’s not him. But it is. Colton. His face is void of emotion; eyes cold as he watches his father torment the poor girl. Every ounce of hope I had for him—gone. I wanted to believe he wasn’t like his father, but this? This proves otherwise.
In the middle of one frame, frozen in time, Colton watches.
Not passive. Not ignorant. No.
There’s a girl in the shot, shackled to the far wall, her body twisted in pain, Xavier’s hands all over her, and Colton…just stands there, eyes cold and distant, like he’s already dead inside, letting his father enjoy the sport.
No.
But it’s there. The truth.
Colton was there. He’s been there all along.
Is this what he’s always been? Just another monster in the shadows, waiting his turn?
Something inside cracks, and all that’s left is fury. White-hot, blinding fury .
I stare again at Sophia. At the final moments speckled across those filthy photographs…and something cold settles over me, colder than anything I’ve felt yet. If Colton was involved, if he had any hand in what happened to her?—
Jesus…
They’ll both die.
I won't just kill them. I’ll make sure they feel every ounce of pain they inflicted. I’ll burn this house to the ground, and they’ll know it was me. It won’t be quick—it can’t be. Not after what they’ve done. Every scream that’s echoed through these walls will be returned tenfold.
And this place—this entire fucking mansion—is going to burn.