Chapter 22 Cassian’s Past #3
But then he spins her—too hard. She stumbles and crashes into the wall, and my body jerks so violently I nearly give myself away.
That’s when the real horror begins.
Because it’s not just a wall he’s thrown her against. It’s the knife target.
He dragged her to it.
The bloodied bullseye.
The red heart.
No, no, no. Not yet. Not yet, for fuck’s sake!
Her back hits the center of the circle. Her breath catches. She starts to fight then, trying to push him off. And somewhere in her struggling, I scream her name.
But it ends in a blink.
He locks her to the board with metal cuffs at each limb, spreading her like an offering.
Her wrists and ankles snap into place with sharp clicks. I hadn't seen the manacles before. I should have.
She gasps. Pulls against them. They don’t budge.
Sabine is trapped.
“No, no, no. Fuck…” I lunge forward, forgetting everything. The plan, the danger, my bindings. My right arm tears upward, and the chair holds me in place even though I’m using everything I have.
That’s when I realize it.
The chair is fused to the floor.
The man turns, grinning so wide it looks like his face is splitting.
“Well, well,” he says, turning to me. “Is that a free hand I see, Cassian? Had that tucked away all this time?”
I freeze.
My arm is out, rope dangling in bloody threads. My breath is ragged. The chair creaks beneath me.
But I’m still stuck.
He walks toward me slowly. The knife is still in his hand. The small one. The personal one. Meant for carving, not throwing.
His eyes gleam.
“God, I was hoping you'd surprise me.”
I don’t respond.
I don’t even blink.
Sabine’s eyes lock with mine. Her panic is showing now—more honest than before. There’s no performance anymore, no pretense. Just fear. And shame. And something else: regret.
She mouths something. I think it’s I’m sorry.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t how this ends.
The man crouches in front of me like I’m a dog.
He leans in, the knife catching the light beside his cheek.
“Here’s the deal,” he murmurs. “You’re going to sit here and watch. Eyes open. Still. Quiet. And if you so much as flinch the wrong way…”
He twists the blade slowly in his palm.
“…I’ll make you watch me cut her open. Slowly. Layer by layer. While she begs you to stop it. You’ve been doing so well all this time. Just a little more, Little Soldier. It’s about to end soon.”
I yank at my bound hand, so hard I half-expect my wrist to break. I don’t care about the bone. I care about my sister. I can’t let this bastard touch her. I won’t—
But it’s already too late.
He stands, walks over to her, and slides the knife next to her face. Snips something. A lock of her hair. He turns, places it carefully on the table, and opens a box of throwing knives.
The next few minutes feel like someone’s switched off my brain. Like I’m seeing everything but not really processing any of it.
Not until the first knife lands in Sabine’s torso.
Somewhere in the blur, his voice repeats in my head.
He says he likes doing this to girls like her.
That he wants their deaths to feel personal.
Says she’s too beautiful to disappear like all the others no one remembers.
Says he’s doing her a favor. That people will remember her exactly as she is now.
At her most beautiful, with the number of knives in her body matching her favorite number.
When the fifth one buries itself in her leg, when he starts treating her like a target, that’s when my thrashing finally tears the rope from my wrist.
And I snap.
The last cord tears, but I don’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. My feet are still bound. The chair is still bolted to the floor. But my arms are free now. That’s all I need. That’s all the monster inside me needs.
I lunge. The chair scrapes forward with the force of my movement, metal screaming against concrete. He turns just in time to see me flying at him.
We crash. Hard.
His back slams into the wall. The knives spill from his box. One slices across my ribs, but I don’t feel it. I don’t care. I grab the first thing I can—his throat, his shirt, his smug fucking face—and slam us both to the floor.
He thrashes like a demon. Tries to stab. Tries to scream. But I’m already on top of him, teeth clenched, hands raw from rope burn and rage.
“Die,” I growl, and drive my elbow into his jaw. “Die, you scum.”
Bone cracks. He chokes. Blood spatters across my shoulder.
But he’s stronger than I thought. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s the mania. He rolls with me, and we tumble—chairs, knives, limbs all tangled in a feral brawl.
He ends up on top. Shoves something into my mouth.
At first, I think it’s his fingers. Then I realize—it’s pills. The same ones he’s been playing with this whole time.
Bitter, chalky tablets jammed between my teeth.
I bite down.
He snarls. “Swallow them.”
I spit blood and foam into his face.
He punches me in the ribs. Once. Twice.
Pain tears through me. I gasp.
That’s when he takes advantage. Shoves more pills in. A whole handful. Presses his palm over my mouth, pinches my nose shut, and uses his elbow to force my jaw up.
I swallow them.
Because I need air.
Because I need to keep going.
But they hit fast.
My body is already breaking—no food, no water, heat exhaustion, blood loss. The pills don’t need long.
The room tilts. My limbs seize. Everything slows.
He laughs as I collapse.
He thinks I’m finished.
But he makes one mistake.
He leans in close.
I grab the nearest throwing knife and drive it into his hand. The same one he used to throw with. I twist until the bones snap.
He screams and falls away.
And then I’m falling too.
Backward.
Into nothing.
The world fades.
My lungs stop.
My heart stills.
I leave my body.