Chapter 21 Cassian’s Past
“Why the long face?” the man asks as he sets a metal bowl of white rice on the small table in front of me. “You’re finally going to see your sister face to face today. You should be happy.”
I’ve been sitting here for what feels like forever, tied up and forced to endure his narcissistic brand of psychological torture without a single break.
He’s not just a deviant, he’s clearly an insomniac, too. He can’t seem to relax unless he’s drugged out of his mind. He’s been carrying a pill bottle in his pocket this whole time, flipping the lid open and shut whenever he runs out of things to say to me.
I’m not playing along anymore. I’ve stretched my patience to the breaking point, hoping that if I cooperated, Sabine might get better treatment if it ever came to that. But I’m human. I can’t keep staring into the eyes of her predator and pretend I’m okay. I can’t smile like some trained puppet.
I just can’t.
Every time he speaks, I want to rip the crust of the earth apart and bring this entire basement down with it, even if it means dying right here, with him.
And the fact that he bothered to say “today” means I’ve probably been here at least two days. Maybe more. How would I know? There are no windows, no clocks. Just his voice, the rattle of that goddamn pill bottle, and the sick-sweet smell of mold hanging in the air.
“Happy?” I echo, barely managing to lift an eyebrow. “Are you out of your mind?”
He looks at me now with that same twisted sparkle in his eye, like we’re just roommates snowed in somewhere, killing time. Like this isn’t a stalker and his victim’s brother. Like he’s not a sadist and I’m not a man barely holding it together.
"Cheer up," he says, nudging the bowl closer. “It’s jasmine rice. Imported. Your sister loves it.”
My fists clench instinctively, the rope digging into raw skin. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting copper.
“What makes you think I have an appetite?"
He straightens, feigning surprise, then lets out a short, theatrical laugh.
“What makes me think you don’t?” he counters. “You’ve barely touched your last two meals. You’re getting thin. Gaunt. Pretty soon you won’t be able to stand, and then what? Can’t have you looking like death when she walks in. She might faint.”
His eyes are too bright. Feverish. It scares me. His obsession is hitting its peak.
There were girls before Sabine. Girls he moved on from. He told me about them. Not a lot, but a bit. Enough for me to know they’ve been to this basement once.
“Maybe I’ll spoon-feed you,” he adds, already dragging a chair over. There’s something grotesquely sincere about it. “Today’s a special day, Cassian. A really special one. I want everything to be perfect.”
“Perfect?” I rasp.
As if anything about this is perfect. Is that how he sees it? A celebration?
The laugh that claws up my throat comes out more like a snarl.
“You think tying me up, drugging yourself into delusion, and staging a date with the girl you’ve stalked for—what, over a year?—is perfect? God, you’re such a fucking nut case.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just smiles.
“Perspective is everything,” he says, sitting down across from me with a too-casual ease. “You see a cage. I see a sanctuary. You see a threat. I see a gift. It’s all in how you frame it.”
I spit blood onto the floor between us. “Frame this.”
His eyes flick to the red stain, and for a moment, just one, I see it: anger. I shouldn’t feel good about it, not when he’s the one in control, but still. It’s something.
Sabine will come. Or he’ll make sure she does. And I have no plan, no move left. Every path to saving her is closed to me. I can only hope Grayson keeps her safe. Her and my mother.
I try not to dwell on it. Thinking too much hurts. But I know Grayson. He can do it. He’ll follow his instincts, cop instincts, the kind that run in his blood like caffeine, and figure out that nobody in Sabine’s circle is safe except him and my mom.
He’ll take them to a safehouse. Cut off Eli. Sweep the house again. Tear it apart if he has to. Retrace the camera feeds straight back to this hellhole.
But if he makes one wrong call, trusts the wrong person or follows the wrong lead, it all collapses.
And Sabine walks straight into the fire.
I shift, the ropes now grinding into muscle. My whole body screams, but I stay still. Jaw locked.
“Worried?” he asks, his voice softening like he thinks it’s comforting.
Like a lullaby laced with arsenic. “You don’t need to be.
I’ll take good care of her. We’ll have our date, your sister and I.
Right here, in front of you. Think of yourself as the chaperone.
Or maybe just an observer. You can judge our chemistry, give me a performance review.
What do you think? I have a feeling we value similar things in women. ”
He grins. Just grins. I fight the urge to vomit. My teeth are clenched so tight my jaw aches.
“What would I rate?” I ask, though I already know nothing good is coming.
“The chemistry,” he repeats, more animated now. “The connection. The spark.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “That spark, Cassian. That’s what it’s all about.”
“You think you’ll have any?”
“Oh, I know we will.” He licks his lips.
“It’s not guesswork. It’s method. Why do you think I spent so much time getting it right?
The gifts. Learning her habits. Studying what makes her feel safe.
Getting inside your house and looking at those sweet little photos of her as a child.
It wasn’t random. It was research. I’ve been preparing for this moment.
Laying the groundwork. Building trust without her even realizing it. That’s how you manufacture a spark.”
My God. Just let me stretch those fucking ties a little bit more so I can launch myself at him and bite out his throat. I’d gladly take all that gushing blood. I’d fucking bathe in it. My hatred for this man is staggering.
He mistakes my silence for understanding.
“We’ll have candles,” he continues, dreamy.
“Music. I’ve been working on the playlist. Something a little sad, a little romantic.
Lana Del Rey, maybe? She’s been listening to her a lot.
Especially these past couple of hours, after she begged Grayson to go and find you.
She’s sweet like that—can’t stop worrying about you.
He told her not to, not to upset your mother even more, but she can’t help herself. She can’t stay strong for her sake.”
My whole body goes cold.
She did what? Asked Grayson to find me?
I think about the hours I’ve spent here.
This bastard’s been in the room the entire time.
He never left. He didn’t play anything specific on those screens since showing me his camera locations.
I know he has a live feed on Grayson’s house, or wherever Sabine and Ma are staying now, but he didn’t watch it.
Moreover, how would he know what they were saying if there wasn’t any audio played in the room either?
I’d know if there was. I’ve been straining every sense, listening for anything that could hint at their safety.
So what is it? A bluff?
He smiles wider at my expression, clearly pleased he’s hit a nerve.
“There are limits to what I’m willing to share,” he says. “But rest assured, I only tell you what you need to know. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
He leans back, stretching his arms like he’s just accomplished something worth applause, and lets out a long, satisfied sigh. His fingers start tapping a tuneless rhythm on the table, each beat dragging my mind closer to the edge.
My thoughts splinter.
If he knows Sabine asked Grayson to find me… if it’s not a bluff… then someone told him.
I realize who.
Eli.
That fucking mole.
But how does Eli know anything? Did he worm his way in, pretending he needed protection from Grayson’s men? Play the part of the helpful friend who’s been driving Sabine to work these past few months? Pretend he’s worried, for her safety, for his own?
Is he feeding all of it back to her stalker while convincing the police he’s on their side?
No… Grayson wouldn’t fall for that. Sabine wouldn’t.
But if she’s worried about me, if her defenses finally cracked, she might be too lost in it to think clearly.
Shit.
A fresh surge of adrenaline hits. I fucked up. I fucked up bad letting this man catch me. There’s no one out there who can protect my sister better than I can.
“You should eat, you know,” the man says again. His tone is gentle now. Fatherly, even. It makes me want to break something. “I don’t want you to pass out before the big event. Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
I look down at the bowl of rice. Steam curls lazily into the air, mixing with all the mold around me. I don’t touch it. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. My hands are tied. This is about him trying to break me. Trying to get me to ask him to feed me.
Too bad for him, I don’t give a damn about hunger.
He stands and stretches again, just as casual as before, then walks to the far end of the basement where his screens are. He taps something on a panel I can’t see.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters. “But you’ll regret it once you see our little date. There’ll be steak. Nice and bloody.”
The way he says it—
I know that feverish look is back in his eyes.
Even if he’s no longer looking at me.
The next couple of hours are nothing short of a nightmare. The man is doing everything he can to drag me toward unconsciousness. And he’s damn good at it.
First, he brings a heater into the basement to raise the temperature by a few degrees, slowly, steadily. Not enough to notice right away, but enough to make sweat bead across my back and chest. Enough for dehydration to slip in silently.