Red Dreams (The Reaper Duet #2)

13. Kaden

13

KADEN

I don’t sleep. Instead, I stare at the door, eyes burning despite the weight of exhaustion pressing down.

Layla thrashes in her sleep beside me, her hair spilling across the pillow. She whimpers, caught in the throes of a nightmare, and my chest constricts. I move from my perch on the bed and lie down next to her, gathering her in my arms and chasing away the demons that haunt her.

Cassie has ceased her torture next door, as even monsters need to sleep. But the memory of her malicious laughter bounces around my skull, coupled with her jealous vitriol.

What I did with Layla, tucking her into bed and soothing her to sleep, wasn’t done with the intention of sending Cassie into a rage. Only in hindsight did I realize that watching such a thing would’ve been too much for my wayward daughter to handle.

Cameras are set up all around this suite—lenses in ceiling corners and listening devices under lampshades. My daughter has this room covered. No doubt that’s how she noticed me caring for Layla and treating her like a porcelain doll when I helped her to bed.

Cassie lashed out—not at Layla or me but at strangers in the adjacent suite.

So many observations hit me at once. I couldn’t fall asleep even if I wanted to. Cassie has a signature, even if she doesn’t know it. She locks us all in luxurious suites, surrounded by indulgence yet deprived of it at the same time. Before my arrival, Cassie had Layla bound, naked, and curled up on the expensive carpet as she tortured her.

Tortured.

My Wraithling at the mercy of my daughter. I can trace the map of pain Cassie left on Layla’s body. Each cut, scratch, and burn escalated in damage as more time went by and I hadn’t come yet. Layla’s pain was all for me. To punish, I suppose, and flay my heart open.

It worked.

However, Cassie doesn’t know how easily I can compartmentalize. I can put on my assassin’s mind like a second skin. Layla’s suffering kills me inside, but it doesn’t affect the Scythe.

I scan the room as him, running through each interaction with Cassie so far. I detach from emotion as I analyze Cassie's behavior, searching for patterns and pressure points. She's re-creating the traumas of her past, using this suite as a stage to act out her twisted fantasies. The lavish decor, the cameras, and the psychological torment are all designed to make us feel as helpless and abandoned as she once did.

I can start with the photos, the ones I sifted into a pile and tossed in the trash—but not before I noticed a glaring error on Cassie’s part.

She meant for these pictures to horrify us, and it worked. Yet when the Scythe glances at the photos scattered across the bed showing the twisted and grotesque forms of men and women, their faces contorted in pain and fear, he notices no images of young girls. Only adults.

Despite her clear intention to punish fathers and daughters, likely echoing her own suffering at Morelli’s hands, she didn’t take girls her age when she went through this horror.

Therefore, she has a line that she won’t cross. She doesn’t want to hurt children.

My darling, evil girl still clings to a piece of morality.

The father in me holds on to that, using it as a beacon of hope that I can get through to her.

The Scythe knows better and wants to figure out how to make it a weakness and use it against her.

I stroke Layla's hair, my touch light so as not to wake her. She needs the rest, needs to gather her strength for the trials ahead. Because I know Cassie won't stop. She'll keep pushing, keep prodding at our weaknesses until she finds the one that ends us. I press a kiss to Layla's forehead, breathing in her scent. Even now, with exhaustion and fear clinging to her skin, she's intoxicating. My Wraithling, my love. I'll burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.

Layla stirs, her brow furrowing as another nightmare takes hold. I stroke the side of her face with my thumb, murmuring sweet nothings. Even in slumber, she leans into my hand, seeking comfort. The trust she places in me, after everything I've done, is both humbling and worrying.

I don't deserve her. But I'll be damned if I let Cassie destroy the one pure thing in my life.

Carefully, I extract myself from Layla's embrace. The suite is eerily quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the computers behind the hidden wall panel. I’m determined to find the button to open it, but not yet. Not when so many cameras are on me. Ideally, Ethan is in there somewhere, working his magic. If he can find a way to disable Cassie's cameras and the electronic lock on the door, maybe I can come up with a plan that doesn't involve torture and death. I'll get Layla out of here as soon as the green lights in the cameras I’ve spotted go off.

Until then, I pace the room, my mind churning. I start to pull open drawers to give myself something to do. Expecting most of them to be empty, I’m pleasantly surprised when one of them in an antique armoire holds two black sweat sets, one in my size and one in Layla’s.

It’s a gift horse, to be sure, but I’d rather look it in the mouth than wander around naked under a black silk robe while my daughter figures out ways to mutilate me. I collect the cashmere sets and put them in the bathroom for later when Layla rouses.

When my continued pacing brings me to the trash bin, I pick up one of the pictures, studying the agonized face of a middle-aged man, his eyes wide and glassy and his mouth wrenched open. I recognize the look. I've seen it on my own victims in the moments before I ended their lives.

And I worry that the only way I can get through to Cassie is to be the Scythe, the cold-blooded killer, just like her. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I can feel the Scythe digging at the edges of my mind, begging to be let loose. It would be so easy to give in, to let him take control. He knows how to deal with Cassie and speak her language of blood and pain.

He whispers in my ear, telling me that he can save Layla and beat Cassie at her own game. All I have to do is let him out.

I stop in front of the window, staring out at the morning fog in the rising dawn. Cassie knows she has me trapped between my love for Layla and my duty as a father. She'll use that against me, just as she's using Layla's love for me.

If I cross this line, if I fully embrace the Scythe and go off tormenting some poor soul at Cassie’s behest, I risk losing that. Losing her.

My attention drifts to her sleeping form, so small and fragile amid the opulent sheets. I want to gather Layla in my arms and keep her there. But I can't protect her forever. Sooner or later, Cassie will force my hand, and Layla won’t be here when that time comes.

I’ll get her out.

For Layla's chance of having a future free from the Blacks, I will do what I must. Even if it means that she escapes and I stay behind.

The more I think about those photos of broken fathers, the more I see Cassie's fatal flaw—she expects everyone to choose violence. It's what Morelli taught her, what I reinforced by becoming the Scythe.

But as I watch Layla sleep, I remember how she reached for me even after witnessing my darkest acts. How her touch gentles me when everything in me screams for blood.

The Scythe whispers that love is weakness. But watching my daughter torture others to re-create her pain, I realize she's still that little girl searching for her father's embrace.

Maybe the way to break her isn't through more violence. It's by showing her what Morelli could never understand, that real power lies in choosing tenderness when you're capable of cruelty.

I cross the room and climb back into bed, tracing the tattoo on Layla's throat. My daughter designed this to mark ownership and to prove love always leads to pain.

It's time to show her she's wrong.

Gently, I rouse Layla from her fitful slumber. She blinks up at me, confusion and fear warring in her bicolored gaze.

“Kaden? What's going on?”

“Shh, Wraithling. Just follow my lead.”

I pull her into my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carry her to the bathroom. The tile is cold against my bare feet. I set Layla down on the marble counter, keeping my hands on her waist to steady her and stepping between her spread legs, her satin robe fluttering open to accept me.

She searches my face, trying to read my intentions. I let the mask of the Scythe fall away, revealing the man beneath. The man who would do anything for her.

“Do you trust me?” I whisper, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then help me show Cassie that forcing someone's submission will never be as powerful as earning it.”

I capture Layla's lips in a hard kiss. She responds instantly, her arms twining around my neck as she parts her lips to grant me entrance. I plunder her mouth, claiming her and branding her as mine.

My hands roam her body, skimming over the satin. I want to rip it off, to feel Layla's bare skin. But not yet. This is about devotion. There are no cameras in the bathroom. Cassie can’t see us in this intimate act, but she’ll undoubtedly hear us.

I worship Layla with gentle touches and reverent kisses, finding every sore and ache peppering her skin and showing her with my mouth what my words could never adequately express.

That she is cherished. That she is loved beyond reason. Beyond madness.

Let Cassie hear. Let her witness. Let it gnaw at her, fester in her malignant soul until she can't stand it anymore.

For now, though, my focus is solely on Layla—on bringing her pleasure and chasing away the shadows that cling to her. I trail my lips down the column of her throat, my tongue flicking out to taste her new tattoo.

She arches into me, a breathy moan escaping her lips.

“Kaden...”

The way she says my name makes me so hard, I’m relieved I’m not wearing pants. I allow my own robe to puddle to the floor, then use my hands to slide hers off her shoulders, only the loose knot of the tie at her hips remaining.

She shivers under my touch, goose bumps rising in the wake of my fingertips.

“You're so beautiful,” I murmur against her collarbone before trailing kisses lower. “Let me show you how much I adore you.”

I take my time exploring her body, worshipping every inch with reverent hands and lips, conscious of her wounds. I trace the curve of her breasts, teasing her nipples with flicks of my tongue until they peak into rosy buds. Layla gasps and arches into my touch, her fingers tangling in my hair.

Slowly, I work my way down her taut, bruised stomach, dragging open-mouthed kisses along heated flesh. When I reach the apex of her thighs, Layla holds her breath in anticipation. I hook her legs over my shoulders and breathe her in, intoxicated by her heady scent.

“Kaden, please…”

I stop. “Am I hurting you?”

“No. Not even a little. But should we be doing…?”

“Trust me, Wraithling. Remember?”

I pull any reply from her lips by parting her glistening folds with my tongue. She cries out at the first long lick, hips canting to meet my mouth. I lap at her essence, savoring her sweetness as I circle her sensitive bud. Layla writhes against me, reduced to husky moans and gasps.

Slipping two fingers inside her tight heat, I stroke her inner walls, curling to hit that secret spot that makes her see stars. I can feel her clenching around my digits as I bring her higher.

“That's it,” I encourage between licks. “Let go for me.”

A few more thrusts of my fingers and flicks of my tongue send her over the edge. Layla releases a keening cry, her thighs trembling on my shoulders. I don’t stop working her through the waves of her release until she's boneless and sated.

Lifting my head, I take in the flush of her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Slowly, I kiss my way back up her body until I reach her lips.

“I will get you out of here,” I profess against her mouth. “No matter what happens, never doubt that.”

I reclaim her lips in a deep, consuming kiss, letting it say everything I can't put into words—my devotion, my need, my promise to always fight for her.

When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against hers and sheathe myself inside her with one smooth thrust. We both groan at the exquisite sensation, fitting together like two halves of a whole.

I set a slow, deep rhythm, savoring each drag of my hardness against her tight heat. Layla matches me stroke for stroke, rolling her hips to take me impossibly deeper, whimpering and arching into me, her body begging for more even as she hurts. And still, we move, lost in each other despite the pain.

“I can’t … I can’t hold on…” Layla whispers between pants.

“Don’t.”

I capture her lips again as I increase the tempo of my thrusts, swallowing her moans of pleasure. Layla hooks her ankles behind my back, breathing my name while her nails dig crescents into my shoulders. The slight sting only heightens my pleasure.

Releasing her hips, I brace one hand against the mirror behind her. The other finds the apex of her thighs, my thumb circling her sensitive pearl in time with my deep strokes. Layla moans, her head falling back as I work her closer to the edge.

I angle my hips to hit that secret spot within her. Her walls clench around my length as she lets go, milking my own release from me. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I muffle my groan of ecstasy against the reddened flesh of her new tattoo.

We stay locked together as we catch our breath, pulses gradually slowing. I’m savoring the feel of her in my arms, safe and sated. For this stolen moment, the rest of the world falls away. No Cassie, no threats, just us.

Let my deranged daughter see our “weaknesses”—the tenderness, the trust, the depths of our devotion. By the time I'm done, Cassie will realize that love, real love, isn't fragile strings to be snipped one by one.

It's an unbreakable tether, soul to soul. And I'll use that to strangle the madness right out of her.

Reluctantly, I slip free of Layla's heat and help her off the counter on unsteady legs. I keep an arm around her waist as I lead us to the pile of folded clothes I set in here earlier.

If she’s surprised at the sudden appearance of clothing, Layla doesn’t show it. Likely because her days have been full of rude awakenings, so she’ll take what small perks she can get.

Layla leans into me as I help her slip on the black cashmere sweatpants and hoodie. The fabric swallows her petite frame, but it's a relief to see her clothed and protected, even in this small way. I quickly pull on my own matching set before guiding her back into the bedroom.

As soon as we cross the threshold, a slow clap echoes through the room. Cassie's face fills the wall of monitors that have appeared now that the wall panel is open, an annoyed smirk on her lips.

“Bravo,” she drawls. “What a touching display of affection. I didn't realize Stockholm syndrome could develop so quickly.”

I feel Layla stiffen beside me, but I keep my expression neutral.

“I’m not her captor, Cassandra.” I use her full name like a reprimand. “Layla came to me willingly, knowing exactly what I am. Unlike you, I don't need to force submission.”

Cassie’s eyes flare at the subtle jab. “Love is a lie men like you tell to justify their sins. You abandoned me. Just like you'll abandon her.”

“I never abandoned you, Cassie. I will keep saying that to you until I’m blue in the face. Until you can hear me. Morelli?—”

“DON'T SAY HIS NAME!” she shrieks, slamming her fist against something off-screen. The image shudders. “You have no idea what he did to me. What I suffered while you played house with your little whore.”

I swallow hard, emotion threatening to choke me. “I tore apart every man who stood in the way of finding you. To save you from that fucker’s clutches. I’m so sorry, Cassie. But do not mistake my failings as a father for a lack of love. If I could go back, if I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I would endure every torment, every degradation, if it meant sparing you even a moment of pain.”

Cassie’s eyelashes flicker—a glimmer of my true daughter, but it’s quickly consumed by the flames of her wrath.

“You think fucking this whore will make me see you differently?” She scoffs, but there's an undercurrent of uncertainty. “Physical pleasure is fleeting. It doesn't prove anything.”

“Doesn't it? Tell me, when was the last time you touched someone with genuine affection? Not to hurt or control, but simply to show care?”

I see the conflict in her eyes, the war between the frightened child who wants to believe and the hardened woman shaped by cruelty.

Then she disappears.

The screens split into multiple feeds, each one showing a different room in what I assume is another suite in the club. Bound and gagged figures writhe on beds and floors, their naked bodies decorated with bruises and burns. Men and women, all in various states of agony.

Cassie's singsong tone cuts through the miserable scene. “You showed me your love. Now let me show you mine.”