Chapter 22 Cassian’s Past #2
Monsters exist because sometimes they’re the only ones who can stop another.
I chained mine. Starved it. Tried to bury it. But now it claws at the inside of my ribs, pacing, snarling, begging to be released. And for the first time since this hell began, I welcome it.
Because I’ll be damned if I don’t save my sister.
Condemned forever.
Sabine’s footsteps reach the bottom stair.
That’s when the air shifts. Even with all the incense he’s burned, even with the vacuumed floors, the prepped meals, the polished surfaces, this place still feels like a suffocation zone. A space so foul that someone like Sabine should never have to breathe it in.
And yet she does.
Her dress is blue.
The kind that borders on silver. Not bright. Not flashy. Not something chosen to impress.
No. He picked the kind that makes her look paler than she is. Meek. Fragile.
A little pure.
A little wronged.
A little unreal.
Like a ghost.
Like the whisper of a girl who doesn’t belong in this world.
I know I’ll never forget this moment, how he made her look. No matter what happens. Whether I kill him, he kills me, or both. This image will follow me into the afterlife.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Her makeup is barely there. But her eyes—
Her eyes search the room like she’s already walked through hell to get here.
And the second she sees me, her gaze locks in.
I swear, if I weren’t already bleeding, I would start now.
Her face shatters. The expression breaks so violently it rips through my chest.
She takes one step forward, breath catching.
“Cassian,” she whispers. Tears well in her eyes. Her hands lift halfway, then stop, like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to reach for me.
The man steps in beside her, hovering like a priest beside a bride he plans to bury. His hand hovers near the small of her back. When he touches her, she flinches. But she doesn’t look away. She looks at me, like she could endure anything, if it means knowing I’m okay.
I’m not okay.
Not even close.
But for her, I lift my chin, meet her eyes, and straighten my spine as much as my bindings let me.
“It’s okay, Sabie,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “It’s all going to be okay.”
I want to scream at her to run. To rip off the heels, the dress, the whole twisted illusion. To shove this man back up the stairs and set the house on fire on her way out.
But I don’t.
She’s already here. Fighting back now would only set him off. And we need time. Just a little more.
“Hey,” she says, sniffing. “That’s my line.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, just barely.
“Come on,” the man says, gesturing to the table. His voice turns syrupy. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting. He’s been so patient.”
Sabine hesitates a second too long. He notices.
I know he does, because his hand presses against the small of her back, firmer this time.
Still, she moves. She forces herself forward with a shaky breath.
She walks to the table, heels clicking, dress swaying, grief stitched into every line of her body, and sits down.
They’re directly in front of me. The man made sure of it, giving me the perfect view. I see everything.
Her hands clasp tightly in her lap. She won’t look at him. Only at me.
“Do you like the dress?” he asks.
Sabine blinks, like she has to drag herself back into the moment. Then she nods. “It’s beautiful.”
He exhales like she just gave him a crown. He moves to pour the wine, sets down two glasses, and reaches into the box again.
This time, he pulls out the second knife.
Not the one he threw at the heart. This one is smaller. Curved. Designed for close work. For cutting, not throwing.
My blood turns to ice.
“Just one more thing,” he says, and starts walking toward me. “Before we start…”
I brace myself.
Every muscle in my body locks into place beneath torn skin. My right hand is free. My left is almost there. My whole being coils inward, wound so tight it’s ready to snap or explode.
He walks slowly.
Sabine shifts in her seat. I catch the movement at the edge of my vision.
She says nothing.
Doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t scream.
But all the color drains from her face.
And just as I wonder if this is the moment—one of my hands is free, after all—he lifts the knife to my mouth.
“Taste it, Cassian,” he says, surprising me. “Taste the sauce from the steak. I’d feel bad leaving you out. You’ve been here this whole time, keeping me company. I feel obliged.”
He dips the tip of the knife into a tiny ceramic bowl he’s been holding all this time in the other hand. Blood-red sauce clings to the edge, thicker than wine, richer than anything that belongs here. The smell hits me as he brings it close to my lips.
I can barely taste anything as he presses it to my closed mouth.
“I said taste it,” he whispers, tilting his head, voice slick with that syrupy madness he calls charm. “It’s a rosemary and cherry wine reduction. Sabine’s favorite flavor. I worked hard on it. It would be rude not to try.”
I stare at him.
Let my eyes go flat and feral.
“Suit yourself,” he says, turning away. “You see, Sabine, I’ve treated your brother well since welcoming him to my den. He’s just not very good at behaving.”
“Oh,” she says, trying to keep up the act. Her voice is thin, unsteady. “I’m sure he’s just… overwhelmed.”
And even though I hate that she has to do this, I’m grateful. Grateful she’s stalling. Grateful she’s playing along.
Normally, giving in like this is a mistake. If things were different, I’d want her to fight him. To scream. To tear this place apart. Hell, I’d rather she never came here at all. Never put herself at risk.
But this man isn’t someone you provoke before you’re ready.
Who knows what he did—or what Eli did for him—to make her come here.
I doubt he only threatened me. It had to be more. Maybe our mother. Maybe Greyson and the kids.
You don’t sit in a basement for two days straight, running the whole operation, without a clear plan.
This man is a fucking psycho. And Sabine—God bless her—knows it.
As the knife leaves my face and he turns back to her, I lock my gaze on her. She meets my eyes, and I hope she sees the message there.
Just a little longer.
The rope.
It’s loosening.
It’s slipping.
I just need a little bit more time.
The wrist hanging on by threads is pulp, but my fingers still twitch.
“I think it’s sweet,” he says, now seated across from her. “That you came. Usually, I have to work a little harder to get a date. But you even brushed your hair for me. Made an effort to look… more than presentable. You must love your brother very much.”
What a strange thing to say.
Sabine doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes flick to the wine glass, to the silverware, to the untouched steak beside them. Her hands remain folded in her lap, pale and stiff.
At last, she looks up. “Yes, but also… I wanted to make a good impression.”
He lights up.
“That,” he says, raising his wine glass in a mock toast, “is what I always loved about you. So considerate. So… graceful.”
He takes a sip.
Then he glances at me over the rim of his glass. “But tell me, does it run in the family? You both seem so uninterested in late-night dinners. I made this just for you—well, for both of you—and no one touches a thing.”
I stare back, chest heaving, the rope now hanging by threads and slipping loose.
“You make it sound like there’s something you don’t know about us,” I say, a little too sharply. The pain from fighting the rope bleeds into my voice.
Sabine’s eyes widen. She draws in a breath.
The man only smiles wider.
“Always quick,” he says. “Yes, I do know you prefer to eat earlier in the day. It’s interesting how those small things vary between families, isn’t it? I’m sorry if it was selfish of me to invite you to dinner like this, but you’ll have to forgive me. Old habits are hard to break.”
Sabine shifts. Her knee bumps the table leg.
He notices.
He seems to be noticing everything—except my hand moving.
Thank God he’s never had male captives before. Like he said, I’m the first. An exception to his usual routine.
And it might just be working in our favor.
“Restless, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning toward her. “Don’t worry. I know exactly what might help.”
Without warning, he stands. The entire table clatters with a sharp, jarring sound. Sabine jumps, instinctively grabbing the table’s edge. A moment later, she schools her expression with a calm I didn’t know she had.
Goddamn it.
He moves to the corner of the room. I watch Sabine eye the knife on the table, her jaw tight. She glances over her shoulder to see what he’s doing, but before she can lift a finger, he whirls around.
He’s faster than he looks.
The way he crosses the room is abrupt. Unnatural. His hand slams down beside the knife, not on it, but close enough to make Sabine freeze mid-breath. His fingers flex once on the lace tablecloth. His voice shifts. It’s soft, breathy, and completely fucking unstable.
“Were you going to touch it?” he asks, head tilted like a crow listening for footsteps in the snow.
Sabine doesn’t answer.
My pulse feels like it’s trying to crawl out of my throat.
“I don’t mind if you’re curious,” he says. “You’re allowed to be. That’s what tonight is about, after all. Curiosity. Exploration.” He gestures vaguely between them.
I have to look away to keep from throwing up.
“But don’t be bad, alright?” A pause. “How about you dance with me?”
He says it like a request, but there’s no mistaking the command beneath it.
I look back at them.
She nods once.
I want to scream.
But she stands.
He takes her hand, and I can see her flinch at the coldness of his skin. He draws her to the center of the room, where incense mixes with the stink of rot in the walls and the music murmurs from the stereo.
He hums the lines softly, dragging her into a slow, delicate sway. The song is about eternal love, even after beauty fades and age sets in.
It’s a nightmare.