Page 6 of Red Dreams

I tasted salt and skin, and it’s a brand I’ve now marked a hundred times in memory. She was pressed against her mattress, her pussy arching for me, and I lost myself in the scent of coconut, sea salt, andher,in a way that it now clings to me.

My hands roamed, mapping every inch of her soft, bare skin, every freckle and mole, claiming her with a fever I could barely temper in time. She’s everything—the reason I’m breathing, the only thing grounding me. When her lips parted, soft gasps escaping, it was like a fire licked through me.

Layla’s mine, yet I can’t touch her enough, hold her tightly enough, to make her stay.

Instead of fucking her that night, though I desperately wanted to, I pressed her against me, fingers trailing down her spine, holding her in a viselike grip that felt like it should be impossible to break. She wasn’t just with me at that moment. She imprinted on my soul, became an anchor pulling me from the brink after a decade of being lost at sea.

An anchor that broke its chain.

As Layla sinks into the opaque water of my nightmares, Cassie, barely five years old, takes her place in my head, her tiny hands clasped in mine as we walk along the misty Greycliff shoreline. It was a crisp autumn day, the kind where the air smells of burning leaves and cinnamon. Cassie danced ahead of me on the trail, her dark pigtails bouncing with each step. She wore a bright red coat, a spot of vivid color against the burnt tones of fall.

“Daddy, look!” she exclaims, pointing at a distant shape in the fog. “Is that a sea monster?”

I squint, making out the crumbling silhouette of the abandoned lighthouse on the peninsula. “No, Cassie-girl. That's just an old lighthouse.”

Her blue eyes, mirrors of my own, widen with curiosity. “What's a lighthouse?”

I crouch down to her level, pulling her close. “It's a special building with a big light on top. It helps guide ships safely to shore when it's dark or foggy. But that one doesn’t work anymore.”

Cassie considers this. “Do you think I could give it my night-light in my room? I don’t need it. I’m not scared of the dark anymore.”

A lump forms in my throat at the memory, at the innocence in her voice. “I'm sure the lighthouse would appreciate that, Cass. But it's a little too big for your night-light.”

She giggles, the sound pure and sweet. “Can we go see it up close sometime?”

I nod, tugging on one pigtail. “Sure thing, kiddo. We'll make an adventure out of it.”

But we never did. I never took her to the lighthouse, never showed her the winding staircase or the view from the top. And now, that little girl is gone, replaced by a stranger who wants to hurt the woman I...

I shake my head, forcing the remembrance back.

Ethan taps the desk, his eyes scanning the screen. “There's something else here. Blueprints of the Siren's Call. And they're extensive.”

I head over, leaning heavily on the desk. The blueprints show far more than the club's public areas. Subterranean levels snake beneath the building in a labyrinth of hidden rooms and passages.

“What the hell is all this?” Ethan mutters, zooming in.

I squint at the screen, the chill that had trickled down my spine reversing its course and spiraling back up. Ethan scrolls through the blueprints, each level revealing hidden interrogation rooms, soundproofed luxury chambers, rooms with no windows, rooms with nothing but mirrors, BDSM elements, a state-of-the-art surveillance hub… It's a fucking anthill of depravity.

Ethan’s face pales. “If Layla’s in there…”

He doesn't need to finish the thought. The dread settles in my gut like a lead weight. There are some things worse than death.But then something else catches my eye. A small notation in the corner of the blueprint, easily missed.

“What's that?” I ask, leaning closer.

Ethan follows my movement. “Looks like a server ID. Hold on.”

Suddenly, Ethan's laptop emits a high-pitched whine. The screen flickers, and a face fills the display.

My blood runs cold.

“Hello, Daddy,” Cassie purrs, her eyes—myeyes—gleaming with licentious joy. “Ready to play?”

3

LAYLA

Cassie's fingers are like spider legs across my bruised cheek, her touch a mockery of tenderness.

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