Chapter 21 Cassian’s Past #2
He offered me water before, but that was ages ago, back when the crash of adrenaline kept me wide awake and sharp, able to watch his every move.
Now, I almost wish I’d taken it. My mouth is cracked and dry, my tongue like sandpaper shoved between my teeth.
Swallowing feels like dragging a razor down my throat.
I try not to show it. I won’t give him even a flicker of satisfaction.
But really, really, he knows what he’s doing.
Next, he lights an incense candle in the center of the room. It’s far enough from his electronics, far enough from me not to choke on it. Just enough for the scent to linger, gentle, almost pleasant, even beneath the mold and mildew in the air.
And it’s the worst kind of pleasant.
Lavender, like my mother’s garden. A touch of sage. Something soft and calming.
The kind they use in massage parlors to lull people into sleep.
And fuck, it’s working.
Even as I fight it, trying to track his footsteps, focus on every beep from his machines, my eyelids keep dropping.
My muscles go slack in the heat, drained of the last scraps of strength I’ve been hoarding.
I grit my jaw, try to move my arms, try to remember pain.
But even that starts to blur beneath everything he’s set in motion.
Soft smells. Warm room. Familiar things. And a steady rhythm to his madness.
I breathe through my nose slowly. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Focus on something, anything.
A single sound. A single thought.
Sabine.
Sabine.
Sabine.
I can’t go under. I won’t.
He settles into his chair, spinning the pill bottle in his hand, watching me from beneath heavy lids. His eyes are closing for entirely different reasons than mine, and it unsettles me.
I’ve been to war so sleep doesn’t come easy to me. But this man operates on a different level. To think he hasn’t even napped since I came here terrifies me. I keep thinking he will break eventually, but it’s never coming.
“You really do make this more pleasant,” he says after what feels like another eternity. “I appreciate how hard you fight the sleep. I mean it. You keep trying to stay present, no matter what.”
“You do too,” I reply slowly, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I try to moisten it. It doesn’t help much.
“I do,” he says with a nod. “But I thought I might give you one last bit of rest before the end. A little oblivion before there's no turning back. It's meant as a gift, not a challenge.”
Whatever ritual he’s playing out in that rotting mind of his, it’s dragging both of us in.
He’s just as exhausted as I am. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept, hasn’t even left the room once, not to piss, not for anything, since I got here.
“Thanks, but I’d rather not,” I say.
“Well, that’s your choice.”
He leans back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, still spinning the pill bottle between his fingers like it’s a coin waiting to land. My mind fills in the rest.
Tails—Sabine dies.
Heads—Sabine still dies. Just slower.
“How about I tell you why I do this?” he asks. “Since you plan to stay awake anyway.”
I don’t have the strength to answer. I just accept that he’s going to talk and keep my eyes on him.
“There’s a kind of purity to it,” he murmurs. “The culmination of obsession. The moment the fantasy finally breathes. You ever notice that? I mean, you’ve been to war. Maybe you saw it too. That sometimes... people look more beautiful right before they die.”
The words jolt me awake. Not because they shock me, but because it's the first time he’s said it so plainly. He doesn’t want Sabine for love. He never did. He always meant to kill her.
Everything else, the candles, the music, the rice, the performance, is just decoration for his funeral pyre. A backdrop for the grotesque fantasy that killing her is some kind of communion. A twisted sacrament to whatever filth whispers in his head.
My heart slams in my chest.
“I sent her a dress,” he says, puckering his lips and raising his brows. “A real pretty one. Told her I’ll cut your finger off if she doesn’t wear it.”
I swallow hard. Fear slides back into my bloodstream, not sharp, not ready to make me move. Just worn-out and slow.
But it’s not even for me anymore. It’s for my sister.
I can’t help but wonder how she felt getting a message like that. How did it reach her? Through the phone he kept sending things to? Did Eli leave something behind for her to find? Or worse, did he reveal himself in a moment she couldn’t escape?
Did he trap her somewhere, force her to listen, to acknowledge the dress, to shake her conviction just enough to make her leave safety behind?
“Don’t tell me...” I begin. I don’t have the strength to yell. I just ask, quietly, matching the tone of the man across from me, who sounds just as somber. Just as hollow.
“She’s coming, Cassian,” he says. “In two hours, your sister will walk through those doors, and we’ll see this through.”
I stare at him, my vision swimming, the heat in the room amping up with each second. The candle scent turns rancid in my nose. The ropes bite deeper into me.
Two hours.
Two hours until Sabine walks into this godforsaken place, wearing a dress picked out by the man who plans to harm her.
“Why?” I ask. “Why would she do that?”
He lifts his brows, still staring into the distance.
“For you,” he says. “Told her I’d let you go afterwards.”
The irony almost makes me laugh. I was supposed to save Sabine, not be used as bait. She has to know I don’t want her anywhere near here. Of course she knows that.
“They wouldn’t let her go,” I whisper, shaking my head. “My family… they wouldn’t.”
He clicks his tongue and nods.
“Eli’s resourceful. He’ll get her out.”
The way he says it, I believe him. I wish I didn’t, but I do. There’s a finality in his voice that makes it sound like this plan has been in motion for a long time. And everything so far has gone according to it.
This will too.
“I…” I start, not even sure what I want to say. “Why are you telling me this?”
He finally looks at me and takes a deep breath.
“Well,” he says. “Believe it or not, I know what it’s like to be on the other side. I understand it. I just don’t choose to care. The world’s cruel. And so am I. But I have my moments.”
He watches me for a long beat. I don’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing left to say.
Finally, he slaps his knees, breaking whatever moment had passed. He stands, dusts off his clothes, and switches off the heater.
“Well, it’s warm enough in here, but I’ve still got a lot to prepare,” he says. “You should rest in the meantime. It’ll really do you good.”
He smiles. Maybe the most disturbing smile he’s given me yet. This one says he knows exactly how cruel he’s going to be, and he’s going to do it anyway. Then he turns away.
Fuck.
I shift again, reflex more than hope, but something shifts with me. A twitch. A give.
Barely noticeable.
The knot at my right wrist is damp.
Sweat. Blood. Heat.
Maybe all three.
But it’s softened.
I flex again, slowly. Carefully.
“My stance hasn’t changed,” I say, partly to mask any sound my wrist might make, partly to give the impression that nothing here is different. I’m still the same guy with the same conviction. So much so that he doesn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. He keeps talking.
“Alright,” he says. “Like I said, I enjoy your company.”
“Wish I could say the same,” I reply.
My fingers curl again, twisting just enough to feel the burn of raw skin shifting over frayed rope.
“I think you do, too,” he says, still facing the screens. “You just don’t want to admit it. Unlike my guests, you understand how much thought goes into what I do. You hate it, sure, but deep down, you get it.”
My stomach curdles, but I don't respond. Not this time.
Twist. Slide. Bite back the noise.
Do I appreciate his work? I don’t know.
I think I did before. Now it’s a different story.
But none of that matters. Not if I get a chance to fight. I’ll save Sabine, no matter what it costs. Then I can think about the monster in me. When it’s over.
Another tug. Sweat runs down my spine. I feel it, the loop loosening. Threads pulling apart. I don’t look down. I don’t dare.
“I even thought,” he says, voice soft and musing, “about giving her peace of mind. Letting you both go together. So she wouldn’t be terrified in those last moments.
For your sake.” He chuckles. “But I’m not that generous.
I like you. Who knows? Maybe you’ll come to see the pleasure in this. Join me, once the dust settles.”
Join him?
I can’t speak.
He turns slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of his smile, lazy, tired, satisfied. His madness has taken him somewhere dreamy. He thinks he’s already there.
I take the risk.
I twist my wrist hard. Something scrapes—skin, rope, air—and then slips. I bite my lip until I taste blood, but my right hand is free. Numb. Shaking. Maybe useless. But free.
He doesn’t notice.
Not for the next two hours.
But by the time he does, it’s too late.
For either of us.