Chapter 3 #3
The words hit me like a physical blow, and my reaction is instantaneous. I swing my hand back and crack—I slap him so hard across the face that his head snaps to the side. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through the dungeon.
"I would have preferred not to be born at all!
" I shriek, leaning into his space, my face inches from his.
"I would rather be fucking dead than be born from a man who stuffed his own daughters and wife into a rusted box in the attic like they were nothing but fucking rubbish!
Then neglected me to the point I had to work at 12 so I wouldn't starve! "
Thomas freezes. His eyes go wide, the pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The color drains from his face, leaving him a ghostly, sickly grey. "You... you found them," he whispers, the realization hitting him. "You found the bodies."
I feel a surge of sick satisfaction seeing him terrified.
"Did Mum even love you?" I demand, my voice dropping to a deadly, trembling hiss.
"Did she ever actually want to be with a monster like you, or did you take her by force?
Did you kill her the second she realized what a fucking parasite you were? "
Thomas blinks, his instinct to lie kicking in even now. "No... no, Marguerite loved me. She adored me, she—"
CLICK.
Rhys doesn't even look at me. He just shifts the gun, pressing the cold muzzle firmly against Thomas's temple. The movement is fluid, effortless, and utterly terrifying.
"No! No, wait! I take it back!" Thomas screams, his voice hitting a pathetic, high pitch. "She didn't love me! She didn't love me, I swear to God!"
BANG.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space. Thomas lets out a blood-curdling scream, his body jerking violently. I flinch, but I don't look away. A small piece of flesh—the very tip of his ear—has been blasted away. Blood begins to spill, hot and crimson.
Thomas lets out a blood-curdling scream, the sound echoing off the damp stone walls like some dying animal.
He’s shaking violently, his whole body convulsing in a pathetic heap of terror.
Blood spills from the side of his head, hot and crimson, splashing across his cheek and soaking into his collar.
It’s a fucking mess, and for the first time in my life, seeing him in pain doesn't make me feel sick—it makes me feel a twisted sense of peace.
Before he can get another sob out, Rhys moves. In one fluid, brutal motion, he shoves the gag into Thomas's open mouth, gagging him effectively. The screams turn into muffled, wet whimpers, his eyes bulging with panic as he stares up at the man who holds his life in a single finger.
Rhys looks down at him with a cold, detached expression, as if he’s looking at a particularly repulsive insect.
"Don't think for a second that I spared you because you 'took it back', you pathetic piece of shit," Rhys says, his voice low and dangerous.
"I didn't kill you just now because I know exactly how delusional you were about Marguerite.
That lie you just spat out? It's a fucking fantasy.
A lie you actually believed for a while, didn't you?
You convinced yourself she loved you, you delusional cunt, right up until the day you let her fucking die. "
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Thomas is sobbing behind the gag, his chest heaving, the reality of his own failure and madness laid bare by the man who has spent years studying every dark corner of our lives.
Rhys turns to me. The coldness in his eyes vanishes, replaced by that intense, possessive hunger that always makes my skin prickle. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel his presence enveloping me, pulling me back from the edge of my rage.
"Any other questions, my little cracked doll?" he asks softly.
I look at the bloody, shaking wreck of the man who fathered me. I feel empty. Drained. The anger is still there, simmering under the surface, but I can't face any more of this right now. Not while the smell of gunpowder, ammonia, and blood is filling my lungs.
I shake my head slowly, my voice barely a whisper. "Not now. Later."
"As you wish," Rhys murmurs.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pristine white handkerchief. With a methodical, almost meditative slowness, he begins to clean the barrel of the gun, wiping away the residue of the shot. He doesn't look at Thomas as he speaks, his tone returning to that terrifyingly calm authority.
"We'll be back," Rhys tells the gagged man, his voice echoing with a promise of more pain.
"And when we return, you'd best have your fucking story straight.
No more omissions. No more 'misremembering'.
None of your delusions are allowed in this room.
If I hear one more lie, I won't stop at the ear. "
He folds the handkerchief neatly, tucks the gun away, and reaches for my hand.
His grip is firm, possessive, pulling me away from the horror and back into his dark, suffocating embrace.
As we walk out of the cell, I don't look back.
I just let him lead me, the black halo resting heavy on my head, binding me to the only monster I can actually stomach.