Cassian bound Theo to a chair with rusted chains, blood gushing from his arm, a river of red and yellow pus staining the floor, the air thick with the stench of rot and iron. Theo’s skull wept gore, fragments of bone jutting from the crack, his eyes rolling, one dangling from its socket, held by a thread of nerve. “How?” Evie demanded, voice a broken shard, her hands crusted with his blood and brains, her stomach heaving, bile burning her throat.
“Faked my death,” Theo rasped, grinning through shattered teeth, blood bubbling from his mouth, dripping down his chin in clots. “Watched you, Evie—jerked off to your screams, your blood. You’re the curse’s key—your mother’s guts weren’t enough, her womb split open, her screams music as I fed her to the tide.” His laughter was a death rattle, wet and obscene.
Cassian’s face twisted, a mask of rage and ruin. “She drowned herself for me—slit her own throat, bled out in my arms. You warped it, you festering shit.”
“Kill me, and it’s hers,” Theo taunted, his dangling eye swinging, gore dripping onto his lap. Evie seized the dagger, its runes slick with old blood and flesh, her hands trembling, slick with sweat and Theo’s brains. Cassian knelt, baring his throat, blood still trickling from the nick, his voice raw. “Take me—spill my guts, save yourself.”
She stared—his scars, his desperation, the love that flayed her alive, his chest heaving, blood and sweat glistening. Theo cackled, “Weak bitch.” Fury erupted, a red haze—she plunged the blade into Theo’s chest, twisting, ripping through ribs, blood gushing in a hot fountain, spraying her face, her hands, chunks of lung and heart splattering the floor, a wet, meaty thud as he slumped, grinning through his death, his guts spilling onto his lap, steaming in the cold air. “You’re… the sacrifice,” he choked, blood flooding his mouth, drowning his last breath.
The air turned putrid, shadows clawing her skin like talons, sinking into her flesh, drawing blood. Cassian yanked her to him, kissing her—fierce, tasting of blood, rot, and Theo’s death—tearing her shirt away, fabric shredding, her breasts bared, blood from her earlier wounds mixing with the fresh spray. She shoved him down, straddling him on the gore-slick floor, ripping his pants open, his cock hard and dripping, veins pulsing with a sick life of their own, precum yellowed and foul. She sank onto him, riding fast, nails gouging his chest, flaying skin, muscle tearing under her hands, blood welling in rivers. He gripped her hips, thrusting up, brutal, his cock splitting her torn cunt wider, blood gushing from her thighs, pooling with Theo’s gore beneath them. His hand clamped her throat, squeezing until her windpipe cracked, her vision blackening, her climax a dark explosion, a flood of blood and cum soaking him, and he roared, spilling deep, a torrent of heat and filth, their bodies a writhing mass of sweat, blood, and entrails, the chains rattling as Theo’s corpse slumped further, guts slithering free.
“I’m trapped,” she rasped, voice a death knell, the estate’s pulse hammering in her skull, her skin crawling with its hunger. “You’re free.”
“No,” he choked, horror splitting his face, blood dripping from his mouth, his arm a mangled ruin. “I’ll claw it back—I’ll bleed for you.”
“You can’t,” she said, a guillotine in her chest, her flesh already rotting under the curse’s claim, the shadows sinking deeper, flaying her soul.
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