Page 35 of Red Dreams

She meant for these pictures to horrify us, and it worked. Yet when the Scythe glances at the photos scattered across the bed showing the twisted and grotesque forms of men and women, their faces contorted in pain and fear, he notices no images of young girls. Only adults.

Despite her clear intention to punish fathers and daughters, likely echoing her own suffering at Morelli’s hands, she didn’t take girls her age when she went through this horror.

Therefore, she has a line that she won’t cross. She doesn’t want to hurt children.

My darling, evil girl still clings to a piece of morality.

The father in me holds on to that, using it as a beacon of hope that I can get through to her.

The Scythe knows better and wants to figure out how to make it a weakness and use it against her.

I stroke Layla's hair, my touch light so as not to wake her. She needs the rest, needs to gather her strength for the trials ahead. Because I know Cassie won't stop. She'll keep pushing, keep prodding at our weaknesses until she finds the one that ends us. I press a kiss to Layla's forehead, breathing in her scent. Even now, with exhaustion and fear clinging to her skin, she's intoxicating. My Wraithling, my love. I'll burn the world down before I let anyone take her from me.

Layla stirs, her brow furrowing as another nightmare takes hold. I stroke the side of her face with my thumb, murmuring sweet nothings. Even in slumber, she leans into my hand, seeking comfort. The trust she places in me, after everything I've done, is both humbling and worrying.

I don't deserve her. But I'll be damned if I let Cassie destroy the one pure thing in my life.

Carefully, I extract myself from Layla's embrace. The suite is eerily quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the computers behind the hidden wall panel. I’m determined to find the button to open it, but not yet. Not when so many cameras are on me. Ideally, Ethan is in there somewhere, working his magic. If he can find a way to disable Cassie's cameras and the electronic lock on the door, maybe I can come up with a plan that doesn'tinvolve torture and death. I'll get Layla out of here as soon as the green lights in the cameras I’ve spotted go off.

Until then, I pace the room, my mind churning. I start to pull open drawers to give myself something to do. Expecting most of them to be empty, I’m pleasantly surprised when one of them in an antique armoire holds two black sweat sets, one in my size and one in Layla’s.

It’s a gift horse, to be sure, but I’d rather look it in the mouth than wander around naked under a black silk robe while my daughter figures out ways to mutilate me. I collect the cashmere sets and put them in the bathroom for later when Layla rouses.

When my continued pacing brings me to the trash bin, I pick up one of the pictures, studying the agonized face of a middle-aged man, his eyes wide and glassy and his mouth wrenched open. I recognize the look. I've seen it on my own victims in the moments before I ended their lives.

And I worry that the only way I can get through to Cassie is to be the Scythe, the cold-blooded killer, just like her. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I can feel the Scythe digging at the edges of my mind, begging to be let loose. It would be so easy to give in, to let him take control. He knows how to deal with Cassie and speak her language of blood and pain.

He whispers in my ear, telling me that he can save Layla and beat Cassie at her own game. All I have to do is let him out.

I stop in front of the window, staring out at the morning fog in the rising dawn. Cassie knows she has me trapped between my love for Layla and my duty as a father. She'll use that against me, just as she's using Layla's love for me.

If I cross this line, if I fully embrace the Scythe and go off tormenting some poor soul at Cassie’s behest, I risk losing that. Losing her.

My attention drifts to her sleeping form, so small and fragile amid the opulent sheets. I want to gather Layla in my arms andkeep her there. But I can't protect her forever. Sooner or later, Cassie will force my hand, and Layla won’t be here when that time comes.

I’ll get her out.

For Layla's chance of having a future free from the Blacks, I will do what I must. Even if it means that she escapes and I stay behind.

The more I think about those photos of broken fathers, the more I see Cassie's fatal flaw—she expects everyone to choose violence. It's what Morelli taught her, what I reinforced by becoming the Scythe.

But as I watch Layla sleep, I remember how she reached for me even after witnessing my darkest acts. How her touch gentles me when everything in me screams for blood.

The Scythe whispers that love is weakness. But watching my daughter torture others to re-create her pain, I realize she's still that little girl searching for her father's embrace.

Maybe the way to break her isn't through more violence. It's by showing her what Morelli could never understand, that real power lies in choosing tenderness when you're capable of cruelty.

I cross the room and climb back into bed, tracing the tattoo on Layla's throat. My daughter designed this to mark ownership and to prove love always leads to pain.

It's time to show her she's wrong.

Gently, I rouse Layla from her fitful slumber. She blinks up at me, confusion and fear warring in her bicolored gaze.

“Kaden? What's going on?”

“Shh, Wraithling. Just follow my lead.”

I pull her into my arms, cradling her against my chest as I carry her to the bathroom. The tile is cold against my bare feet. I set Layla down on the marble counter, keeping my hands on herwaist to steady her and stepping between her spread legs, her satin robe fluttering open to accept me.

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