Page 63 of Ethereally Redeemed

There were three police officers, and now only one is left. He drives out of the Grimhill perimeters, instantly ripping off his officer’s uniform jacket, revealing a normal white shirt with a badge on it.

“Haleson, Doctorate at D.I.”

It feels as if all breath has been stolen from my lungs by a vacuum. My little doll is back there, and the person I thought would take me to the police station to be questioned works for Dankworth Institute.

Oh fuck.Fuck!

My attempts to get free are futile. The cuffs won’t budge and they cut through my skin until I see small drops of blood falling.

“You can try, but you’ll never get out of them,” he says from the front seat, and there’s a smirk to his tone that has unease slithering down my spine.

The backseat has nothing I can use as a weapon, and the panicfiltrates my body even more with each second that passes; I can hardly breathe.

“What the fuck happened back there?” I ask, trying to gauge a reaction from him, but he only leans over to turn on the radio.

It sparkles to life, music filtering through the space.

For each mile we drive farther away from Grimhill Manor, my heart sinks a little more, feeling the distance tearing apart that thread between me and my little doll. My heart physically soars, hurting as if someone has crushed it with a hammer.

There’s nothing I can do to escape, and when I try the backdoor—maybe I can fling myself out of the car and survive the crash—I quickly realize it’s locked.

God-fucking-damnit.

The music switches to a reporter talking, but I can’t focus on anything but how to get out of this suffocating vehicle that feels like the gateway straight to hell.

“That goddamn bitch is everywhere,” the man mutters. “Her posters are all around town.”

I tune him out, which only spurs him on, making him more agitated as he keeps talking. “Maybe I should bring her with me, too. The institute could need more innocent people to fuck up.” He laughs quietly to himself, and the sound grates on my nerves, sending shivers down my spine that I can’t ignore.

I perk my ears, straining to listen to what the reporter says, all the while keeping one eye on the fake-officer and one on my outsides, memorizing every curve and turn we make out of the forests surrounding Grimhill Manor. From what Naya told me, it’s an endless maze of woods out here; hours away from civilization, which we noticed when we traversed the path to find the damned manor.

“The author, Everlee Mincheva, well-known for her debutRedeemed,is having her first signing in London on October 28th, at Bookhaven. Tickets are selling fast…”

I don’t hear the rest of the statement as my adrenaline spikes up within my veins; Naya’s friend from Grimhill Manor is having a signing in a week. This might be her chance to reunite again. I tuck away the information in my mind, hoping, fucking praying, that Naya will find out about this. Because even if I don’t get out of this hell I’ve found myself trapped in, at least my little doll might have a chance at survival.

Even if it’s without me.

Haleson curses under his breath as he drives through the dense forest. The car moves at a slow pace, as if he’s deliberately avoiding haste—more fearful of what’s ahead than eager to reach it. It feels as if we’ve barely covered thirty miles, the tension thickening with every turn of the wheels.

Maddening impulses take control of my mind—much like they’ve done for the majority of my life. There’s no time to think, only to act, no matter the consequences. The monster slithering inside me craves the blood, the fight, and the fucking suffering. Even more so now that I’ve been separated from my little doll.

Blood surges to my cock at the thought of her all alone, vulnerable, and waiting for me to take care of her. All the while, my heart crumbles at the thought of abandoning her. I feel the distance growing between us, like scissors snapping a ribbon in half, making it irreparable.

I can’t lose her. Not when I’ve finally gotten her back.

I assess Haleson in the front seat, his eyes focused on the road before him and his interest piqued by what the radio says. It’s ironic how he seems to hate the author yet listens intently.

“Fucking hell, that you killed Ricci. Now I’ll have to contact his boss,” he mutters, still complaining, but all I can think about is whether I could suffocate him if I leaned forward, trapping his throat between my hands and the backrest of his seat.

Fuck it.I seize the moment, using my swiftness to dart my hands over the backrest to capture his throat like I imagined.He instantly thrashes in a pathetic attempt to break free, but I only squeeze harder, as if I’ll physically capsize his head from its place. They should’ve thought of handcuffing my arms behind my back instead. He chokes on his breath, clawing at the cuffs holding him in place, all the while he loses control of the car. It swerves violently to the right, and I brace myself for impact. I didn’t think this through, but then again,fuck it.

Slowly, mercilessly, all oxygen drains from him as his face turns a sickly shade of white and blue, death knocking at his door. The harsh thud of the police car colliding with a thick tree flings my head forward, slamming it against the seat before me. Despite the slow speed, the impact is jarring, and a low ringing takes root deep within my ears, gradually worsening. Blood drips from my nose—probably a burst of blood vessels colliding with the seat, and I groan.

The car is broken beyond repair.

Lightheaded, I sit still for a moment, breathing through the shock after the crash, and waiting for the ringing to disappear. Then I turn to the corpse before me.

What now?

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