15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
K ane
The room reeks of rot.
Raw, visceral, human decay. The air is a rancid cocktail of blood, bile, piss, and terror, thick enough to clog the throat, to seep into pores until the skin itself feels saturated with filth.
You don't just breathe this air—you choke on it, drown in it, let it seep into your veins until you're as twisted, as corroded, as the acts you're about to commit.
Beneath my boots, blood has turned gelatinous, dark as tar, sticking and peeling away from concrete that reeks of ammonia and stale sweat.
Douglas Everhart sits slumped, bound tight to a chair with surgical tape and piano wire that bites into raw, weeping flesh.
His skin is no longer skin, it's shredded meat, exposed muscle fibers quivering beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
Open wounds weep fluid that trickles like syrup, trails of it dripping onto his lap, forming congealed puddles beneath him.
His head hangs forward, spittle and mucus drooling steadily from the gag stuffed in his swollen mouth.
“Hey.” My voice is hollow, distant, the cold echo of a monster buried deep within, desperate for slaughter. I slap his face lightly, forcing his eyes to roll back, glassy and bloodshot, pupils blown wide with agony and terror. “Look at me.”
He shudders violently, wheezing breaths hitching through bloody nostrils, trails of snot and saliva dribbling onto his chest. His lips, shredded from previous lessons, tremble uncontrollably.
"Douglas…" He convulses violently, chest spasming with shallow, ragged gasps, blood and snot bubbling from flared, broken nostrils.
His torn lips quiver helplessly, shredded from earlier lessons, dripping saliva and fear onto his battered chest. “Do you want to know who sent me?” My whisper is soft, intimate, a lover's secret murmured against his bloodied ear.
“Who wanted you to suffer so exquisitely?”
His eyes widen further, terror etched deep into the shattered fragments of his gaze. A low, strangled noise escapes him, a pitiful, animalistic sob muffled by the soaked gag.
“Camille,” I hiss the name like a prayer and a curse, my voice trembling with barely restrained fury, devotion twisted into violence. “You remember her, don't you?”
Douglas shudders, a fresh wave of panic surging through his ruined body.
I take hold of the knife, its blade glinting sinisterly under the harsh lights, stained crimson with past torments.
Carefully, almost lovingly, I drag it down the side of his face, splitting open skin with surgical precision, blood pouring free in a hot cascade down his jawline.
"Yeah, of course you remember. And I'm sure you remember all the other little girls you violated.
But Camille, Camille's mine... she's always been mine, and you signed your death warrant the very second you laid hands on her.
" I set the blade aside, replacing it with an axe, its weight comforting and lethal in my grasp.
One brutal swipe severs his hand, the flesh and bone parting with a satisfying crunch.
"I'm her vengeance," I breathe out fiercely, my voice pure darkness, the words etched in violence.
"I'm the monster that eats other monsters, Douglas.
" Another swipe cleaves away his other hand, both dropping heavily to the floor in a spray of blood and gore.
His screams vibrate through my bones and I feed off it.
"Tell me, did you think she was quiet because she liked it?
" I lean closer to savor the agony. “Because she wanted it?
So many years later and you probably thought you got away with it.
Stole her voice." He groans through the gag, eyes bulging as I reveal a bottle of bleach, unscrewing the cap deliberately, letting the acrid scent bite into the stench of blood.
Douglas thrashes wildly, panic overtaking pain.
His pleas turn to guttural, animalistic sobs, muffled by soaked fabric.
I grab his jaw roughly, forcing his head back. "Open up."
The bleach pours down his throat in thick, choking waves, bubbling violently against flesh, mimicking the saltwater burn Camille felt, her throat raw, her lungs filling with fire as she drowned in silence.
Douglas convulses violently, eyes rolling into his skull, his body seizing uncontrollably as acidic foam gushes from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin.
“You feel that burn?” My whisper is pure venom, dripping poison directly into his psyche. “That's her pain. Taste it, you sick fuck. Taste every fucking second she suffered.”
The knife feels like an extension of my hand, precise and merciless, sinking effortlessly into flesh already tenderized by torment.
I start at his chest, peeling him open methodically, inch by careful inch.
Skin splits apart like overripe fruit, wet pops echoing as fatty layers detach, revealing muscle, slick and twitching.
Blood gushes thick and fast, pooling rapidly, adding fresh crimson to the congealed black.
His screams…fucking music. Pure, visceral agony fills the room, reverberates in my chest. I hum softly, calm amidst the chaos, surgical precision as I strip him layer by excruciating layer. Each cut intentional, designed for maximum suffering, prolonged torment.
The blade sinks deeper, carving into muscle fibers that twitch and quiver violently. Blood spurts from severed veins, arterial spray misting my face, warm and satisfying. My hands slick with gore, I grasp edges of flesh, peeling it back meticulously, savoring the wet suction as layers separate.
Douglas writhes, consciousness flickering, screams dissolving into breathless, wet gurgles. His eyes lose focus, drifting into shock.
“Stay awake,” I snap, injecting him swiftly with adrenaline into his jugular, the sudden surge forcing life back into his failing body. His heart races violently, jerking him awake, wrenching him back into unbearable torment. “There's no quick escape from this Hell, motherfucker."
With cold, clinical detachment, I carve deeper, slicing open his abdomen, guts spilling free with a grotesque, wet plop, intestines slithering onto his lap. He jerks violently, eyes blown wide with primal panic, agony beyond comprehension painting his face.
The stench of bile floods the air, viscera steaming gently in the chilled basement. I examine my masterpiece, satisfied yet hungry for more.
Finally, I carve the words deliberately, brutally, into his exposed ribs:
I'M.
A.
PEDOPHILE
Letters jagged, precise, permanent. His screams fade to whimpers, reduced to animal sounds of sheer torment.
As his pulse falters again, another injection of adrenaline forces him awake, prolonging the unbearable agony.
Without hesitation, I slice one last time, clean and clinical, severing his cock in a swift, practiced motion.
The ruined flesh drops heavily onto the chair beside him, raw and bloody.
Joaquin steps forward silently, handing me a cloth. I wipe my blade carefully, methodically, before calmly cleaning the blood from my face and hands. Douglas is barely alive, reduced to a mass of bleeding, shivering agony.
“Make sure they find him exactly like this,” I instruct quietly, voice devoid of humanity, controlled, absolute.
“They will,” Joaquin replies, eyes as cold and indifferent as my own.
I glance down at the mangled flesh, the desecration a testament to my worship. The blood coating my hands, my clothes, my skin, feels like like redemption.
A ritual.
A devotion she'll never fully grasp.
Camille—my fierce, defiant bruja, she’ll never fully understand the darkness I’ll drown myself in, the monsters I’ll become, to eradicate anyone who dares hurt her.
Camille
I stay away from the office.
Away from Sinclair Media, from the polished marble floors and the cold glass walls where his presence lingers like a ghost, relentless and inescapable.
I barricade myself behind emails and Zoom meetings, behind half-hearted lies about feeling under the weather.
Anything to keep the devastating promise of Kane Rivera’s touch out of reach.
But distance is meaningless. It’s a hollow defense, useless in a city he owns, because Kane’s reach extends far beyond boardrooms and penthouses.
It finds me at an exclusive cocktail party on the Upper East Side, where laughter spills like champagne and smiles glitter beneath crystal chandeliers. Music whispers, smooth and elegant, conversations carefully meaningless, until someone murmurs his name:
Douglas Everheart.
My heart stops dead. My muscles seize, every cell in my body screaming in sudden, vicious awareness. The room shrinks, compressing down to the single whispered name. My hand clenches around the champagne flute until the glass trembles, dangerously close to shattering.
“What happened?” someone whispers, barely audible above the gentle hum of gossip. But the crowd tightens, leaning in eagerly, vultures circling fresh prey.
“You haven’t heard?” A woman gasps, scandal lacing her voice like fine silk. “It was barbaric. They found him at his Hamptons estate.”
My skin prickling hot and cold in rapid succession. I force down the nausea clawing at my throat, desperate to hear, terrified to know.
“He was tortured,” she continues, eyes wide, relishing the macabre details. “Almost skinned alive, carved up so brutally he was barely recognizable. Whoever did it took their time, hours, maybe.”
My stomach twists violently, bile burning bitter at the back of my throat. Yet I lean closer, compelled, disgusted, needing to know the depth of the horror.
“The worst part?” Another voice, hushed and eager, cuts in sharply. “They mutilated him, they found his genitals next to his body. And carved right into his chest were the words...”
“What words?” The question slipping out before I can stop it.
Faces turn, startled eyes blinking curiously at my outburst.