32. Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Two
Byron
“ M ijo, wake up.”
My mother’s voice cuts through the void. “Fight it,” she adds, her tone soft yet urgent. My head jerks, searching blindly for her.
“Mama,” I scream, stumbling into the darkness, following the sound of her voice. My steps falter as something warm and sticky coats my feet. The sharp, metallic scent of blood overwhelms my senses, choking me.
The lights cut on, and I freeze.
Ren is sitting in the center of a crimson pool, dipping his paintbrush into the blood and dragging it across his canvas. His onyx eyes flick to me, gleaming like polished obsidian, and his mouth twists into a satisfied smile.
I try to scream, but no sound comes.
I come to, gasping for air like I’ve been drowning. My chest burns, my skin slick with sweat, and the room tilts around me, bending and twisting in ways it shouldn’t.
The shadows on the walls shift unnaturally, creeping and pulsing like living things. For a moment, I think I see a face—a twisted grin with hollow, empty eyes staring back at me—but when I blink, it’s gone.
There’s movement nearby. The soft rustle of paper. I try to tilt my head, but my neck feels locked, my muscles stiff and unresponsive.
Ren.
He’s sitting by the window, a book open in his lap, his expression calm, serene, like a predator waiting patiently for its prey. His onyx eyes flick to me briefly, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk.
“You should rest,” he says, his voice low, almost soothing.
Something moves behind him—a shadow, tall and spindly, its limbs too long and too sharp. It stretches toward him, clawing at the air, but Ren doesn’t seem to notice.
Maybe I should warn him.
I try to speak, but my throat is a desert, cracked and useless. My eyes close against my will, dragging me back into the dark.
I’m running through the woods.
“Help!” Gabriela shrieks, her voice tearing through the night. The branches claw at my arms and legs, thin and gnarled like skeletal fingers.
“BYROONNN!” she screams again, a sound so horrific it doesn’t seem real.
I pump my legs harder, desperation burning in my chest, only to skid to a stop.
Her body.
Gabriela’s headless body hangs from the branches above, perched grotesquely like a macabre trophy. Blood drips from her neck, staining the bark below, pooling at my feet.
“NO!” I scream, the sound ripping through me, raw and guttural.
This time when I wake again, the cold hits me first. It seeps into my skin, biting and relentless, and for a moment, I think I’m back in that basement, tied to the chair with my father looming over me.
But no—this is worse.
Ren is sitting by the window, facing me this time. He’s sketching, I think. His pencil moves in harsh, deliberate strokes, the sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
“Wat—“ I try to make a sound, but my throat feels dry. My hand moves weakly to my lips, and the stickiness there feels uncomfortable, foreign.
I close my eyes, trying to gather my strength. I’m so fucking thirsty.
When I open them again, the room shifts. The sketchpad is gone. The walls ripple, and faces emerge from the shadows—distorted, grotesque. Their mouths gape, twisted in silent screams as crimson spills from them, flowing toward me like a rising tide.
“Stop,” I croak, my voice barely audible.
Ren’s head tilts, his onyx eyes locking onto mine, gleaming like black mirrors. He sets the pencil down and stands, his movements slow, deliberate.
“You’re persistent,” he murmurs, crouching beside me. His fingers are ice-cold as they press a damp rag to my forehead.
I flinch, but he holds me still, his hand firm.
“Relax,” he says softly, his tone mockingly gentle. “You’re not dying. I’ve made sure of it. Rest.”
Rest. If only I could. The rag is too cold, the water dripping down my temple feels like ice burrowing into my skull. My eyes close again, but this time, the dark doesn’t feel empty.
I see her.
Gabriela stands in the studio, her hands bound, her mouth gagged, and her brown eyes wide and filled with terror. Blood trickles from the corner of her lips, staining her golden skin. She tries to scream, but nothing but muffled sounds come out.
My chest tightens, and I try to move, but my body won’t respond. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, my arms like stone.
“Help me,” she pleads, her voice echoing unnaturally, splitting and doubling until it surrounds me from every direction.
I try to scream, but nothing comes out.
Behind her, Ren steps forward, his face obscured by shadows, a knife gleaming in his hand.
“Don’t beg, Thorn,” he says, his tone cold, detached. “It’s unbecoming.”
The blade flashes. Blood sprays. It’s warm and sticky, splattering across my hands, my face.
I look down, and her head is in my lap. Her lifeless eyes stare up at me, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.
“NO!” I scream, the sound finally ripping free from my throat.
I jolt awake, my body convulsing as if trying to shake off the nightmare. My chest heaves, the sweat-soaked sheets clinging to my skin. The room tilts and spins, and the shadows on the walls seem to pulse and crawl, their movements erratic and wrong.
“Calm down,” Ren’s voice cuts through the chaos, smooth and steady.
My eyes snap to him. He’s sitting by the bed, his expression calm, almost bored, a damp rag in his hand.
“You’re safe,” he says, pressing the rag to my forehead.
Safe .
The word feels like a lie, like it’s mocking me.
My gaze darts around the room, searching for Gabriela, for the blood, for anything real. But there’s nothing. Just the dim light, the faint hum of the IV, and Ren’s unreadable face.
“Where—“ I choke on the word, my throat raw and burning.
Ren leans forward, his onyx eyes gleaming in the dim light, sharp and predatory. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low and calm. “It’s just the fever. You’re safe. For now.”
His words echo in my head, blending with the ghostly images of Gabriela’s lifeless eyes and my father’s voice.
Safe .
I don’t believe him.