Page 38 of Be My Sacrifice

“Dinah, are you sure?” Abe’s words slither across the back of my neck, trying to ground me back on this plane, but I will not have my darkness leashed.

I don’t bother to respond, because he won’t be able to keep me safe. I care nothing for my own life anymore. Whether I live or die is of small concern to me. I will have my vengeance, even if it costs me everything. Here’s hoping that it won’t.

The screams of death and torture should horrify me, and yet they don’t. They are a beautiful melody to my ears, a symphony accompanying the chorus of madness playing out in my mind. The one that keeps demanding more. More bloodshed, more death, more evil.

The feeling of warm blood coating my clothing, seeping in through the fabric, and dampening my skin, makes me feel more alive than I have been since I woke from that coma. I should be concerned that only death allows me to feel like I’m truly living, but what would be the purpose? I no longer care if insanity wraps its claws deep inside of me. It is better to be the predator than the prey. Besides, red has become my favorite color, especially when it is painted in Brotherhood crimson.

I push forward through the forces, trying with desperation and failing to fight us off, as I make my way finally into the house. The sounds are muted here, all of the fighting being confined to the courtyards of the estate, while the inhabitants have remained relatively safe from me, until now, that is. I’m close now; I can feel it. Close to getting my Sammy back, to murdering Noah Rothesay, but not before he answers for his crimes. I’m almost giddy with the thought of all the torture I will inflict on him, while prolonging his life.

“They are in there, Ms. Camrose, a handful of them, including one of the high-ranking priests.” The female rebel lieutenant nods towards the sealed doors to what I imagine must be a ballroom. How grotesquely spoiled these men of the Brotherhood are. They sip and toast champagne to each other, and their misdeeds, while the populace starves on maggot-moldy bread and dirty water.

They all must die.The world deserves to be cleansed of their sins. Balance must be restored back to the light, and I know once it is, I will have no place in it, as I’m a creature of the dark.

A smirk tilts at the corners of my lips, watching how enthusiastic she is, loaded with weapons on her petite frame, and splattered with blood from her enemies. I empathize with her joy at being a female able to take back her power, and removing Brotherhood scum from this earth. I wonder how many she’s managed to kill, and if they were shocked to find a female fighting back against her aggressors before they died.

They feared the devil, when they really should have feared Lilith; she was always more dangerous. Men have always been fools since the beginning of time.

“Ma’am, we can’t confirm that Noah Rothesay is still within the estate walls. We weren’t able to get eyes into that room when the fighting began. We believe he is still here somewhere, hiding and trying to escape.”

Vermin.That is what Noah Rothesay is, and when things get rough, vermin run, with their long tails tucked between their legs, and hide back in their vermin holes. He won’t escape me. I plan to set everything he’s ever touched on fire, so he has nowhere left to hide.

All of this makes me remember a verse that my father drilled into me as a child:“If a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.”I believe that was from Mark. I certainly hope it’s true. I plan to divide all of the Brotherhood before I’m done, and lay waste to the Order that professes to do the Almighty’s work.

Thunder rolls and splits the air, loudly cracking with electricity as it hits the house, once, then twice. The sound is deafening and helps to disguise the fighting outside in its deluge. It seems even the sky is roaring in agony, protesting the bloodshed and the sins it will undoubtedly wash clean with its rain. A cleansing rain, one trying desperately to purify all the death and destruction that coats the soil. The death and destruction that I have ordered with my commands, and committed with my hands.

I wish somehow that it was able to cleanse this murderous need inside of me. This endless desire for retribution that I seem to be unable to satisfy, no matter how much blood I spill and how many lives I take.When will it be enough?Is it when the body count is so high that it is unnecessary to keep track of it anymore?

What will history say about Dinah Camrose when we are long gone, and all of our bones have turned to ash? Will they call me a vigilante, a serial killer, a woman scorned, or a menace? Will they look to me as a savior like the rebels like to portray, or will they pity the young orphaned girl who had her life destroyed and ended, and was reborn as an insatiable monster? How will I be received by future generations?

Enough.None of that matters anymore. The only things that matter now are getting Sammy back, keeping Abe safe, and killing Noah Rothesay.What about Ezekiel? My mind questions, but I avoid the question, knowing I have no definite answer.

“Break the doors. We have a party to join, a wedding, if I am not mistaken.” She scurries off to obey my commands, just as a blood-soaked and heaving Abe slides up to my side. His hand reaches out for me, trying to pull me into his long, powerful arms, offering comfort that I don’t seek. No, I have no time for softness or weakness now. Only strength will keep me moving forward.

My gaze meets his, the glow of his amber eyes in the moonlight bringing a shiver down my spine. He, too, is enjoying the bloodshed and the chaos. He doesn’t even try to disguise it. I can see the satisfaction and glee painted along each inch of his features. He’s as much a serial killer as I am. We are one and the same. Some would call us defective, but I prefer to think of us as an entity without remorse.

He’s stripped out of his dark shirt, his golden tattooed chest, and thickly muscled arms unabashedly on display for all to see. The vivid artwork painted on his skin is beautiful with its various swirls, bright colors, and depictions of benevolent saints mixed with terrifying demons. The hard planes of his chest and abs are streaked with blood, between the straps of the gun and blade harnesses he wears.

The moonlight glints on the two small metal bars that decorate his nipples. The sight of them driving my core to clench painfully with a vicious hunger, and my mouth to go dry as a sand-filled desert. I’m fully aware that I would like nothing more than to force him down to the body-littered ground, and fuck the very breath out of him. Make him scream out my name as I ride him hard and mean, so all can see that he belongs to me. He is mine.

My eyes trail from the top of his dark, sweat-covered head down to his large, boot-covered feet and stop everywhere in between, until heat sizzles inside my core, causing wetness to dampen my panties. He resembles a warrior I once saw in a forbidden drawing, from centuries before the New World—aViking, plundering the world and taking what he wanted as a prize.

“You keep looking at me like that, Atasi, and I will have you down on your knees with my cock shoved deep in your throat within moments, regardless of what is happening around us, and who watches.” He moves even closer until the scent of his sweat mixed with limes, saltwater, and coconuts, assails all my senses, and his eyes flare with a dark promise of something primal. “Your panties are drenched, aren’t they, my murderous little creature?”

A moan is my reply, as I try to get myself under control, knowing that I need my wits about me and I don’t have time to indulge in his flavor of depravity, no matter how much I may want to. His large, rough hand reaches for my throat, branding my skin with fire at his touch, as my breath seizes in my lungs.

“Just remember, Atasi. This sexy body belongs to me. You are my slut, and you will fall to your knees, ready to take my hard cock when I beckon,” he murmurs in a low gravel-filled tone. His words are filled with control, depravity, and sin, making my desire increase a hundredfold, and my stomach clenches with need.

I push away from him, knowing that if I don’t in that instant, I will fall to my knees before him, taking control of this estate be damned. He releases me with a knowing smirk, as if he can read how close I am to caving, and giving in to my needs.Asshole.

I move towards the rebels, clearly watching our exchange with interest, and awaiting my command to blow the door. Abe’s mirthful chuckle follows me, caressing my skin and trying to tempt me back to his side, so he can have his wicked way with me here and now. It’s not like he would care if others watched; he enjoys an audience, as I know well. The bastard has so many kinks that I have lost track of them all.

I nod, and the doors erupt in a blast of expensive ornate wood, slamming open as I move aside to prevent being skewered like a piece of meat heading for the grill. Once they are clear, I stride forward, and the sight that greets my eyes raises my blood pressure and loosens my grasp on my sanity. The monster inside of me cackles loudly with unhinged joy, at the sight of the subsequent death it will take.

Ezekiel Rothesay is kneeling before a priest of the Order, dressed in black finery, next to a trembling blonde girl who can’t be more than eighteen years old, wearing a beautiful, pristine, and demure white wedding gown. His bleeding hand is holding the blade to her palm, about to commit the blood ritual that ties them together in the eyes of the Brotherhood. He’s about to fucking marry yet another woman.Rage.Rage like I have never felt within myself rises, and the monster demands that I set it free. That I allow it to murder everyone in this room.

The shock on both of their features greets me, as chaos ensues across the room, with rebels fighting guards. His mouth hangs open, those deceitful emerald eyes wide and unblinking, while the woman next to him gasps in terror, trying to pull her hand back from his tight hold. Some part of me tries to reason with the logical and rational part of me, that he looks beaten to a pulp, that something nefarious is happening here, and he may not be the one behind it.

It’s too late, however, as the rage wells up inside me at the sight—the sight of the man who promised, before his God, that he would be my husband until the day he died, alive, and about to marry another woman, while both of us are still breathing. I would even say he was trying to marry a younger, more obedient, prettier version of myself.He was never truly mine.