Lila vanished into the fog, her absence a blade in Evie’s gut. Her calls echoed into a void, dread gnawing her bones like rats on a corpse. She found Lila’s room gutted—empty, her laptop gone, the floor stained with a smear of dried blood, a single tooth embedded in the wood. A fisherman, his face a map of scars, muttered of an argument near the estate, a woman’s scream swallowed by the night. Evie stormed back to Cassian, finding him in the study, maps sprawled across the desk, blood dripping from his hands, a fresh gash on his forearm oozing yellow pus, the air stinking of rot.
“Where’s Lila?” she snarled, voice a whip crack, her hands trembling with rage and fear.
“Haven’t seen her,” he said, eyes narrowing to slits, his voice a lie she could taste. She tore open a drawer, searching for proof, and froze—Lila’s scarf, soaked in blood, clots clinging to the fabric, beside a dagger etched with runes, its blade crusted with gore, chunks of flesh stuck to the serrated edge. Her stomach heaved, bile rising, her heart a dying thing in her chest.
“You lying fuck!” She lunged, fists pounding his chest, but he seized her wrists, slamming her against his body, his heartbeat a war drum under her palms, his blood smearing her skin. “Someone’s framing me,” he hissed, voice a blade of urgency, his breath hot and fetid against her face. “For you—to gut you next.” His grip bruised her bones, and her cunt betrayed her, pulsing with a sick heat she loathed.
He kissed her, a violent rending, teeth clashing, tongue forcing its way in, tasting of whiskey and decay as he tore her shirt apart, fabric shredding like skin, buttons scattering like shattered teeth across the floor. She clawed his face, nails flaying his cheek, blood welling in ribbons, but he lifted her onto the desk, maps crumpling under her, the bloodied scarf pressed to her cheek, its stench gagging her. “Believe me,” he growled, yanking her jeans down, tearing them off with a rip that left her thighs bleeding, skin hanging in strips from his nails. He spread her legs wide, tendons popping, and his mouth descended, teeth sinking into her clit, biting hard enough to draw blood, a hot gush mixing with her slick as he sucked, his tongue stabbing inside her, relentless, a butcher at work. She thrashed, cursing, her voice a raw scream, but her hips bucked, chasing the edge, her hands clawing the desk, splintering wood under her nails. He added fingers—five now, forcing them in, stretching her to breaking, her cunt tearing, blood dripping onto the maps as he pumped, savage and unyielding. She screamed, coming hard, a flood of blood and juices soaking his hand, splattering his face, her body shuddering as if gutted.
He rose, cock freed, veins pulsing, the head leaking a sickly yellow precum, and bent her over the desk, face mashed into the scarf, blood and clots smearing her lips. He entered her from behind, brutal, each thrust slamming her hips into the wood, bruising bone, splitting her open further, blood pooling beneath her thighs, warm and sticky. “You’re mine,” he panted, hand fisting her hair, yanking her head back until her neck cracked, scalp tearing, blood trickling down her spine. She came again, a guttural howl, her cunt clenching around him, and he roared, spilling deep, a hot, thick flood that burned her torn insides, their sweat and gore mingling with the reek of Lila’s death, a crimson puddle spreading across the desk, soaking the maps in their filth.
She fled to the cliffs, the fog a suffocating shroud, her legs trembling, blood trailing behind her like a breadcrumb path. A hooded figure emerged, dropping a note—her mother’s script, scrawled in blood: He lies. Run. That night, her sketchbook bled with unmade horrors—her drowning, her mother’s eyeless face, guts spilling from a split belly, fish gnawing at the strands. The Shadow was a guillotine poised above her neck, its blade already wet.
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