Page 16 of Red Dreams

I shake myself out of it, keeping to the present. My grip tightens on the guns when I take that final step through the doorway, and my world narrows into a single point of focus.

The private suite drowns in shadows and electronic blue light from a wall of screens, broken only by rain-streaked neon bleeding through the windows. The light catches on wet patches across the floor that, at first glance, appear to be water.

Not water. Blood.

Then I see her.

Layla kneels in the center of the room, naked as the moment she was torn from my arms and brought here. The blood has dried in delicate patterns across her skin, like someone wanted me to admire their work. Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, but her eyes—when they find mine, the naked relief in them tears something loose in my chest.

“Kaden.”

Her voice breaks on my name.

Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the space.

“Dad.”

The title stops me cold. A glacial stillness takes hold, freezing everything but my focus as Cassie’s face seeps out of the shadows behind Layla, one hand tangled in Layla's hair. My daughter. My failure. She's beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, all sharp edges and jagged grace. The neon catches in her ebony waves, painting her in shifting shades of white and blue, making her look both younger and older than her years.

Cassie pulls until Layla’s head is forced upward and her chin juts out. “I made her scream for you.”

That sentence holds a familiarity that flays me open. Each word carefully chosen and precisely placed. Like the cuts decorating Layla's skin.

“Recorded every note. But you know what the best part was?” Cassie tightens her hold, and I watch Layla's cheek muscles spasm against whatever pain she's suppressing. “She tried so hard to stay quiet. To protect you. Just like I used to.”

The parallel hits like a physical blow.

“Let her go.”

The order comes out like a plea, stripped of everything but need.

“Layla’s never hurt you. This is between us.”

Layla stays perfectly still under Cassie's grip, but her eyes never leave mine. A steadiness cuts through the blood and fear—the same strength that's kept her alive through whatever hell the past days have brought.

“You want to hear something funny?” Cassie continues, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She wouldn't crack. Not really. No matter what I did.”

Her hand slides to Layla's throat, cupping the front until her thumb and forefinger dig under Layla’s jaw. “It's like she thought being yours would protect her. Like belonging to you meant anything.”

One twitch of my finger could end this, but the pistols feel like dead weights. The cost … Fuck, the cost.

My daughter stands in front of me, where every breath she takes is a miracle. Thethingshe's become wears my failures like a second skin.

And so, I shed the thing I’ve become. One gun clatters to the floor as I release my grip on it. Cassie tracks the weapon’s fall with eyes of ice. Raising my free hand, I remove the mask of the Scythe and let her see the man. Her father.

“Please,” I implore. “Talk to me. I’m here.”

“Talk?” Cassie's voice cracks. “Like when I was seven and you explained why Mommy wasn't coming home? Or when I was twelve and Papa Morelli explained why you stopped looking?”

I close my eyes against her reference to Frank Morelli—Papa—unable to hide the sifting agony under my lids.

“He lied to you. Ineverstopped?—”

“Or how about this.” Cassie forges on. “Let’s really get to know each other, all three of us. Happy little family. Oh, speaking of families, how many do you think you tore apart by becoming the Scythe?”

The silence after her question is as tangible as razor blades.

“Or would you prefer I call more of my men up here so we can watch them tear apart Layla?”

---