Page 54 of Red Dreams

I tremble under his knowing gaze and his words, hating how right he is. Hating how much I crave his merciless touch even as I cradle the broken body he destroyed.

A broken sound escapes me, half sob, half moan.

“Don’t be so devastated,” Kaden croons loud enough for Cassie to hear, his fingers tangling in my hair. Gripping tight. A delicious sting.

Kaden leans in, his breath ghosting over my parted lips as he murmurs, “Because I never left you, and the boy is still alive.”

18

KADEN

The sheer relief in Layla’s eyes is worth the violent killing of tenmoremen.

I know how this must look to her, seeing me like this. But I don’t read fear or revulsion on her face. Only that sweet relief shines through unshed tears.

She understands.

This is what I had to become to keep her safe.

I push to my feet and turn to Cassie, who stands motionless a few feet away, her face a mask of shock under the blood spatter that hit her while I made a mess.

“Do you see now?” I ask her, my voice hoarse despite never using it while I fought. “I became this for you. And I'll stay this for you.”

I could have ended Cassie’s reign of terror within seconds of being dragged into this suite. Could have painted these walls red before Cassie even realized what was happening. But I needed to buy time. Time for Cassie to trust me, time to get Layla out of here, time to try to save my daughter.

My chest constricts at the memory of what I've put Layla through these past hours. The devastation etched into her delicate features as I turned on her, spewing venom and lies,each word a dagger to my own heart. I can still hear her anguished cries, her pleas for mercy, as I forced myself to ignore them, to return to the role of the ruthless, unfeeling Scythe.

And Ethan, the kid who’d become an unwitting ally of mine. His blood is on my hands, literally and figuratively. I can feel it, sticky and warm, mingling with the blood of Cassie's men. The sickening crunch of bone, the wet gurgle of his screams as I worked him over, all while Layla watched in abject horror. I had to make it real, had to sell the depraved depths I was willing to sink to. Even if it meant shattering the tentative trust Layla had placed in me.

But it was all for her. Every bruise, every scream, every wretched act.

Necessary evils to keep Layla breathing, to shield her from the true extent of my daughter's madness. I'd have endured a thousand more torments and shredded my soul beyond recognition, as long as it meant sparing Layla from suffering the same fate.

Now, standing before Cassie and thrumming with a toxic cocktail of adrenaline and regret, I realize the true cost of my choices.

The frayed tether between us, the tenuous link of shared blood and fractured memories, has finally snapped. I see it in the ferocious, desperate gleam in Cassie’s eyes, the way she twitches as she assesses her new, unexpected situation. Cassie’s too far gone, consumed by an evil I can no longer hope to pull her out of.

I stalk toward her, my boots squelching on the wet carpet. My heart breaks on each breath I suffer through to get closer to her.

Cassie stays where she is, a line forming between her brows as she takes in the carnage.

“What's wrong, Cassandra?” My voice is velvet wrapped in barbed wire. “Isn't this what you wanted? To see what your father is really capable of?”

Cassie tenses, her arm shifting to reveal a gun she must have grabbed off one of her men. But she doesn’t fire.

“It's over, Cassie,” I say, my voice calm and even despite the raging inferno of grief simmering beneath my skin. “You've lost.”

“I still have her,” she hisses, jerking the gun toward Layla. “I can still kill her.”

A weary smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “No, you can't. You had your chance. You didn't take it. Because deep down, beneath all that anger and pain, you know the truth. You know I never abandoned you. I never stopped loving you.”

Cassie sniffs hard, avoiding my eye. “You left me to rot. You moved on and forgot all about your broken little girl.”

“I never forgot you. Not for one moment. You were always with me, haunting my every step, driving me to push harder, go further?—”

“To become this?” she spits, gesturing at my blood-drenched form. “The Scythe, Greycliff's own Reaper? You didn't do this for me. You did it for yourself, to bury your guilt, to forget the daughter you failed!”

“I never wanted this for you,” I say softly. “I never wanted you to become like me. Like him.”

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