Page 55 of Red Dreams

“No,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Papa loved me. He's the only one who ever did.”

I'm close enough to touch her now, close enough to see myself reflected in her eyes. The horror I've become. The man who would do anything, sacrifice anyone, to protect what's his.

Even if it means destroying a piece of myself.

“Cassie-girl,” I say, my voice breaking. “It's not too late. We can still fix this, still find a way back to each other.”

Her finger tightens on the trigger, her hand trembling. “There's no going back. You made sure of that when you chose your whore over me.”

She jerks her chin toward Layla, who is now standing in front of Ethan’s prone form as some form of protection. Her hands are fisted at her sides, obviously uncomfortable and terrified, but also pushing herself to become a knock-down fighter if she has to.

She’s loyal, my Wraithling. Devoted. Even though her light is slowly being eaten away by the dark tendrils of the Black family.

If I stop Cassie from going any further, Layla is the promise of a future untainted. Of lazy mornings tangled in silk sheets, of shared laughter and gentle touches, of a love that has weathered the worst tempest imaginable. She is my beacon. My lighthouse. The one pure thing in a life drenched in gore and agony.

At a blur of movement in my periphery, I catch Cassie’s wrist, preventing Cassie from firing her gun at Layla, but Cassie just laughs.

“You think you can be happy with her? That you can just take a nice warm shower and everything you are, everythingIam, can be cleaned off? I’ll kill her. I’ll kill anyone you care about, and then you’ll see. You'll finally understand what it's like to have everything ripped away.”

“I’m well-versed in that feeling, sweetheart.” I keep a firm hold on her wrist while using my other hand to reach into my back pocket and pull out another knife I borrowed from a dead man. “Layla is the first person in a decade I’ve allowed to get close to me. I won’t let you hurt her any longer, or anyone else for that matter. I won’t let Morelli’s poison spread any further.”

I twist Cassie's wrist, the bones grinding together as I force her to drop the gun. It clatters to the floor, lost amid the broken bodies and spilled blood. In a flash, I have her pinned against the wall, my knife pressed to the delicate skin of her throat. My daughter's pulse hammers against the blade. I've imagined this moment countless times over the days. Not out of hatred but despair. Each time I discovered another atrocityshe'd committed, another innocent she'd crushed, I wondered if death would be kinder to her than continuing to live as Morelli’s creation.

“Do it,” she whispers while smiling. “Prove Papa right. Show me how easily a father can kill his daughter.”

The knife bites deeper. Blood wells around the blade.

“Kaden, wait.” Layla's voice cuts through the haze of grief. “Look at her eyes.”

I don't want to. I can't bear to see Morelli staring back at me. But when I do...

I see my twelve-year-old girl. Terrified. Contrite. Still searching for her father's love even as she tries to destroy it.

“Look at her,” Layla repeats softly. “Really look.”

When I do, something shifts in Cassie's eyes—that hateful gleam splintering down the middle to reveal what lies beneath. The knife at her throat draws another bead of blood.

“He'd hold me down,” she says, her voice wavering. “Make me stare into mirrors while he carved away everything soft. Everything weak. Said I had to learn to love what I'd become, just like you did.”

My hold on the blade turns ironclad, promising no escape. But her confession peels back another layer of Morelli's corruption.

“'The Scythe leaves no survivors,'“ Cassie continues, mimicking Morelli’s voice. “'Your father understands that mercy is a weakness.'So I learned. He'd describe your kills in detail. How efficient you were. Said that's how I should be, too. That anything else was a failure.” A harsh laugh. “And look at me now, Daddy. Aren't I everything the Scythe's daughter should be? I learned to be apathetic and efficient. Perfect. When I tattooed your precious Layla, I used the same precision you're famous for. Made art of her pain, just like you would.”

“No.” Another droplet of blood against the tip of my knife. “You're everything he wanted you to be. His perfect weapon against me.”

Cassie doesn't flinch. Instead, she presses forward, forcing me to cut deeper or pull back.

The truth hits harder than any bullet. Morelli used my reputation, my methods, to convince my daughter that cruelty was her birthright. That becoming this warped reflection of me would finally earn my love.

Cassie's face contorts. “But you still chooseher. Still try to protect her when you should be proud of what I've become.”

The blade nicks her pale skin, and this time, it wasn’t deliberate. I’m no longer the hardened killer, the ruthless Scythe. I am a father facing the insurmountable: I must look into the eyes of my own child and extinguish the life I once cherished above all else.

I feel the weight of Layla's gaze at the center of my back, her silent plea for mercy despite what Cassie has done to her. After all, she sees the good inme, the man I could be if I just let myself feel something other than rage and vengeance. But right now, with Cassie's life in my hands and the weight of my sins bearing down, I don't know if that man exists anymore.

“All those years perfecting my technique,” Cassie continues. “Making each cut deeper, each break cleaner. I wanted you to see...” Her voice catches. “I wanted you to know I was worthy of being the Scythe's legacy.”

I want to tell her that I am proud, in some sick, perverted way. Proud of her strength, her resilience, even as it manifests in acts of unspeakable cruelty. She survived horrors that would have shattered a lesser person, emerging from the flames tempered by anguish and fury. But that pride is a bitter pill.

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