Page 37 of Red Dreams

“I can’t … I can’t hold on…” Layla whispers between pants.

“Don’t.”

I capture her lips again as I increase the tempo of my thrusts, swallowing her moans of pleasure. Layla hooks her ankles behind my back, breathing my name while her nails dig crescents into my shoulders. The slight sting only heightens my pleasure.

Releasing her hips, I brace one hand against the mirror behind her. The other finds the apex of her thighs, my thumb circling her sensitive pearl in time with my deep strokes. Layla moans, her head falling back as I work her closer to the edge.

I angle my hips to hit that secret spot within her. Her walls clench around my length as she lets go, milking my own release from me. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I muffle my groan of ecstasy against the reddened flesh of her new tattoo.

We stay locked together as we catch our breath, pulses gradually slowing. I’m savoring the feel of her in my arms, safe and sated. For this stolen moment, the rest of the world falls away. No Cassie, no threats, just us.

Let my deranged daughter see our “weaknesses”—the tenderness, the trust, the depths of our devotion. By the time I'm done, Cassie will realize that love, real love, isn't fragile strings to be snipped one by one.

It's an unbreakable tether, soul to soul. And I'll use that to strangle the madness right out of her.

Reluctantly, I slip free of Layla's heat and help her off the counter on unsteady legs. I keep an arm around her waist as I lead us to the pile of folded clothes I set in here earlier.

If she’s surprised at the sudden appearance of clothing, Layla doesn’t show it. Likely because her days have been full of rude awakenings, so she’ll take what small perks she can get.

Layla leans into me as I help her slip on the black cashmere sweatpants and hoodie. The fabric swallows her petite frame, but it's a relief to see her clothed and protected, even in this small way. I quickly pull on my own matching set before guiding her back into the bedroom.

As soon as we cross the threshold, a slow clap echoes through the room. Cassie's face fills the wall of monitors that have appeared now that the wall panel is open, an annoyed smirk on her lips.

“Bravo,” she drawls. “What a touching display of affection. I didn't realize Stockholm syndrome could develop so quickly.”

I feel Layla stiffen beside me, but I keep my expression neutral.

“I’m not her captor, Cassandra.” I use her full name like a reprimand. “Layla came to me willingly, knowing exactly what I am. Unlike you, I don't need to force submission.”

Cassie’s eyes flare at the subtle jab. “Love is a lie men like you tell to justify their sins. You abandoned me. Just like you'll abandon her.”

“I never abandoned you, Cassie. I will keep saying that to you until I’m blue in the face. Until you canhearme. Morelli?—”

“DON'T SAY HIS NAME!” she shrieks, slamming her fist against something off-screen. The image shudders. “You have no idea what he did to me. What I suffered while you played house with your little whore.”

I swallow hard, emotion threatening to choke me. “I tore apart every man who stood in the way of finding you. To save you from that fucker’s clutches. I’m so sorry, Cassie. But do not mistake my failings as a father for a lack of love. If I could go back, if I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I would endure every torment, every degradation, if it meant sparing you even a moment of pain.”

Cassie’s eyelashes flicker—a glimmer of my true daughter, but it’s quickly consumed by the flames of her wrath.

“You think fucking this whore will make me see you differently?” She scoffs, but there's an undercurrent of uncertainty. “Physical pleasure is fleeting. It doesn't prove anything.”

“Doesn't it? Tell me, when was the last time you touched someone with genuine affection? Not to hurt or control, but simply to show care?”

I see the conflict in her eyes, the war between the frightened child who wants to believe and the hardened woman shaped by cruelty.

Then she disappears.

The screens split into multiple feeds, each one showing a different room in what I assume is another suite in the club. Bound and gagged figures writhe on beds and floors, their nakedbodies decorated with bruises and burns. Men and women, all in various states of agony.

Cassie's singsong tone cuts through the miserable scene. “You showed me your love. Now let me show you mine.”

14

LAYLA

The wall of screens is bright with human suffering. Cassie is making us watch, but instead of focusing on the women’s faces and how much they hurt, I force myself to mentally list the details and try to note anything that could help us.

I’m not tied up anymore, curled into a fetal position and waiting for the next beating. I can finally be useful and start using my mind now that Kaden is supporting me through this wretched hell. My eyes drift from frame to frame while Cassie gleefully narrates each father's descent into monstrosity by torturing other men’s daughters. In one feed, a man methodically breaks fingers while his own daughter watches. In another, someone applies a branding iron with mechanical precision. The scenes blur together until my vision swims and my stomach twists, but something keeps drawing my attention to the bottom right monitor. Not obviously different, but wrong enough to make my tech-oriented mind itch.

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