Red Dreams (The Reaper Duet #2)

10. Kaden

10

KADEN

Cassie clicks her tongue, gesturing to the ostentatious dining setup. “Sit. Both of you.”

She’s traded her skintight bodycon dress for a long black gown. She’s beautiful either way, but seeing Cassie appear so elegant yet remain so ugly inside renders my heart still.

To avoid any further confrontation, I guide Layla to her chair, keeping my body between her and my daughter.

“Isn't this cozy?” Cassie circles behind us once we’re seated, trailing her fingers across our shoulders. “The three of us together. One big happy family.”

She stops behind Layla's chair, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. I tense, but Cassie just leans down to whisper in Layla’s ear, “Did Daddy tell you about our Sunday dinners? How he'd cook my favorite meals?” Her fingers flex against Layla's pulse points. “Now I get to play hostess.”

You two must be starving after all that ... reconnecting.” Her grin stretches wider. “I heard every delicious moment. The way you begged for each other.” She gestures to our wineglasses. “Drink up. The night's still young.”

Layla's eyes meet mine across the table, wide and fearful. The sight of it fills me with a helpless rage that threatens to boil over, but I force it down, knowing that any outburst will only play into Cassie's hands.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” I ask Cassie, my voice low and controlled.

Cassie laughs, a thready, silvery sound. “What do I want? You should know better than to ask such a silly question.”

Layla flinches away from Cassie's touch, her hand unsteady as she reaches for her wine.

Cassie’s fingers glide away from Layla’s shoulders. “Good girl.”

She moves to the domed dishes on the neighboring cart, and I feel a sense of trepidation settle in the pit of my stomach. Knowing Cassie, this is no ordinary meal. Every bite, every sip, is likely to be laced with some new form of torment.

As if on cue, one of Cassie’s men steps into the suite and removes the silver domes. The aroma of roasted meat and fragrant spices fills the air, but the sight of the food turns my stomach. Each dish is artfully arranged, but there's something grotesque about the presentation. It’s as if the chef has taken perverse pleasure in creating a gluttonous feast for two when Layla’s been starved for days.

Cassie licks gravy from her finger, studying Layla.

“Drink,” she commands, all playfulness evaporating. “I went through a lot of trouble to pick the perfect vintage.”

The threat sharpens between us. I want to reach across the table and snatch the glass from Layla's fingers, but Cassie's watching me like a feline tracking another trespassing predator.

“Don't worry,” she croons to Layla. “If I wanted either of you dead, I wouldn't waste good wine doing it. Harris, darling, won’t you serve our guests?”

Cassie’s honey-sweet voice drips with false affection.

Harris lifts a plate, then approaches Layla. Her eyes stay on mine, a silent plea in their depths. My cheek muscles ache as I slam my teeth together and watch this man spoon out small amounts of each dish onto her plate.

“More,” Cassie commands. “She's far too thin. We can't have her wasting away, can we?”

I grind my teeth as Harris doubles the portions. Layla's plate is heaped with food she has no appetite for.

Cassie bends forward, her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her interlaced fingers, watching Layla intensely.

I offer a distraction while curling my hands into fists under the table. “Why don't you tell us about your plans, sweetheart? This can't just be about playing house.”

Cassie’s eyes clink against mine as we connect, and they narrow as she assesses me.

“Tell me, Daddy,” Cassie says, her tone deceptively light. “How does it feel to be back in the bosom of your family? To have both your girls here with you, right where they belong?”

I’m coming to understand what Cassie wants, though she circles it like a circus ringleader cracking whips at her wild animals. That is, if that circus were half decayed and her animals recently clawed themselves out of fresh graves.

I don’t look at Layla when I say, “Layla’s not my girl, Cassie. She never was. You are.”

Cassie’s grin falters, a flicker of something dangerous crossing her lips before she smooths it away.

I hold Cassie's gaze, watching the gears turn behind those calculating eyes, so much like my own. She's searching for a crack, a weakness to exploit, but I won’t give her one.

“Is that so?” Cassie muses, tapping a red fingernail against her lower lip. “Then I suppose you won’t mind standing by as I peel away every last shred of her sanity, piece by agonizing piece. She got my face pretty good with that headbutt earlier. I had to double the amount of my concealer.”

I force a chuckle, the sound grating against my throat. “Is that what this is about, Cassie? You want me to prove my love for you by letting you hurt someone else?”

Cassie’s lips twist into a snarl as she straightens. “You’re as much a demon as me, Daddy. You just hide it better than most.”

The fabric of her dress whispers against her legs as she stalks around the table.

“Both of you, eat.” She gestures to the feast. “I want to see you enjoy every bite.”

I cut into the rib eye Harris placed in front of me while going through all the different scenarios to get Layla out of this place, all of them forcing my hand.

Across the table, Layla picks at her food, each movement cautious and measured.

“You know what's funny?” Cassie leans over Layla’s shoulder and traces the rim of Layla’s wineglass. “All those girls down the hall cry for their daddies, too. Just like I used to.” Her features turn vicious. “But their fathers aren't here to save them. Not like you, Daddy.”

The fork bends in my grip. “What girls?”

“My collection. Daughters whose fathers failed them.” She props her hands on her hips. “Want to meet them? Or would you rather watch what I do to your little kitten here next?”

The choice hits me like a physical blow. Protect Layla, or save innocent girls from my daughter's madness.

“You don't have to do this,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Oh, but I do.” Cassie snaps her fingers, and two more men enter, one carrying a briefcase. “Time to mark what's yours, Daddy. Just like Papa Morelli did me.”

I don’t think. One second, I’m bending a metal fork in my hand, and the next, I’m tossing the table aside, dishes and food scattering as the table slams sideways. Before she can blink in surprise, I grab Layla’s wrist and pull her out of her seat and behind me and stare down my daughter, though any ferociousness I feel isn’t directed at Cassie.

Her men prowl closer, guns raised and directed at my forehead.

“ What did he do to you?” I demand.

Cassie steps back, her crimson lips curving into a smile equal parts bitter and triumphant. She lifts her hands to the thin straps of her gown, letting them slide off her shoulders. The fabric pools at her waist, revealing the intricate tattoo that spans her upper chest and cradles her breasts.

It’s grotesque, a tangled collection of scales and thorns that combine to create the sharp maw of a dragon, gaping open to devour the heart that beats in Cassie’s chest.

“Cass…” My voice isn’t my own. I can’t tear my eyes away from what mars her skin.

“He did this to me on my sixteenth birthday,” Cassie says, tracing the edges of the tattoo with a perfectly manicured fingernail. “Held me down while this was carved into my skin, so I'd never forget who I belonged to.”

My blood runs cold, rage and revulsion at war within the red.

Layla makes a small, distressed sound behind me, and I feel her press closer, her slight frame trembling against my back. Cassie's attention snaps to her, carnivorous.

“Don’t worry, kitten. I have something special planned for you,” she says as she pulls her straps back up.

“Cassie, please,” I try, fighting to keep my voice steady. “If you want to punish someone, punish me.”

Cassie laughs. “I intend to. But first, you're going to watch as I mark your little pet. Just like Papa made me watch when he took his other girls.”

She snaps her fingers again, and one of her men lowers his gun and steps forward, the briefcase in his opposite hand. He sets it on the velvet couch and opens it, revealing a gleaming tattoo gun and an array of inks and needles.

My heart pounds in my ears as Cassie selects the gun and loads it with black ink. She tests the needle against her finger, a bead of blood welling up against her porcelain skin.

I lunge for the closest man and the gun he’s aiming, but another of her goons intercepts me, twisting my arms behind me. He doesn’t think to compromise my legs, though.

In one fluid movement, I hook one of his ankles and force us both sideways until we topple to the ground. Layla takes advantage of the distraction and runs for the nearest lamp, brandishing it before cracking it on top of the guy’s head, laying him out like a stuffed beanbag under me.

Cassie tsks , wagging the tattoo gun in admonishment, and I freeze.

“Now, now. Behave, or I'll make this hurt more than it has to.”

“Stop this,” I snarl at her, grimacing as I come to a stand and step in front of Layla, who’s heaving as she drops the remnants of porcelain in her hand. “I failed you, and I'll regret that until the day I die. But I won't fail Layla, too. I'll die before I let you touch her.”

Cassie's eyes shine with fury, and for one terrible second, I think she might just get rid of the complication and kill me, but then her expression smooths into an icy calm that’s somehow even more terrifying.

Three more men storm inside the suite, dressed in impeccable all-black suits, and head straight for me. I square up, my fists not my first choice for a weapon but effective nonetheless, until Cassie orders, “Hold her,” lazily gesturing at Layla with the tattoo gun.

Two of them seize Layla's arms, dragging her forward despite her desperate struggles. One side of her robe falls open, revealing everything she’s endured up until this point, no part of her skin as flawless as it once was.

I roar and lunge, but fuck , something was in the food. The wine. The room tilts, though I’m aiming straight.

One guy sees his opening and restrains my hands behind my back. I thrash, but his grip is unbreakable as whatever drug Cassie thought up absorbs into my bloodstream. “What did you do? What did you give me?”

“Relax, it’s not poison this time.” Cassie waltzes to Layla, who’s positioned flat on the bed, rose petals and photos scattering as she fights the men holding her down. “Though I still haven’t gotten a thank-you for shooting you up with an antidote before exiting that fun event where I got my prize.”

She trails the tattoo gun along Layla’s exposed collarbone. Layla becomes still and flinches, a whimper escaping her lips.

“Shh, it's okay, kitten,” Cassie croons, brushing Layla's hair aside to expose the graceful curve of her neck. “I'm going to make you so pretty for Daddy.”

She nods to Harris, who lingers near the briefcase and now steps forward. He tilts Layla's chin up with clinical precision. Layla's eyes are wide and glassy as they look for me.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not leaving you,” I say to her, even as my legs start to give out.

Cassie hums in approval as she studies Layla's throat, the tattoo gun buzzing to life in Harris’s hand.

The needle descends, and Layla cries out as it punctures her delicate skin. A single black line starts at her throat, as precise as the cut of a scalpel. Cassie watches Harris work with rabid fascination, the needle dragging across Layla’s skin in precise, elegant lines.

“See how the ink splits into these delicate little branches?” Cassie says, tracing a finger along the fresh lines, uncaring of smearing the blood and ink. “Like veins ... or fracture lines. So fragile. So easy to destroy.”

Layla retches, tears spilling down her cheeks as she tries in vain to pull away.

I strain against the men holding me back, the drug turning my limbs to lead. “Cassie, stop this. I'm begging you.”

“Begging?” She laughs, a jarring sound. “The great Kaden Black, the Scythe, is begging? If only your enemies could see you now.”

She turns her focus back to Layla, head tilting as she examines Harris's progress. The design is taking shape—a series of thin, branching lines that spread like a web from the hollow of Layla's throat. Beautiful in its simplicity. Horrifying in its implication.

“Do you know what this is, Daddy?” Cassie asks, almost conversationally. “It's a map. The exact guide for how and where to slit her throat.”

Adrenaline floods my veins. I will end the man behind me and all the others in this room before another minute passes.

“I’ve seen it done a few times,” Cassie continues. “Messy work, but I was inspired by the artistry of it. Harris used to be a tattoo artist, you see. Before he came to us. And now sweet Layla will wear it always. A pretty little guide for spilling her blood.”

Layla makes a choked sound, fresh tears spilling over. I feel something fracture inside my chest.

And I finally break.

“You're a monster,” I rasp. “A fucking monster wearing my daughter's face.”

Cassie just laughs again, fingers trailing down Layla’s arm. “Oh, Daddy. You have no idea.”

She leans down, her lips brushing Layla's as she stage-whispers, “When Harris is done, this will be a collar you can never take off. An eternal reminder etched into your beautiful body. That you belong to him ... and he belongs to me.”

“Eyes on me, Wraithling,” I murmur, refusing to fall to my knees from the drug. “Just look at me.”

Layla latches onto my stare, even as she shakes and weeps under the gun.

“We know the truth, don’t we, kitten?” Cassie says, severing our connection as she smooths back Layla’s damp hair with a mockingly tender touch. “My father’s love comes with a death sentence.”