I lunge for the handle, fingers closing around the cold metal, twisting, pulling—
A hand snatches my hair from behind.
A scream rips from my throat as I’m yanked back, my head snapping with the force. My feet leave the ground for half a second before I slam into the floor, pain exploding across my back, my skull cracking against the tile.
White-hot agony bursts behind my eyes.
The world tilts.
Mark looms over me, his face a mask of rage and something else. Something dark. Something wild.
His lip curls, and he spits blood onto the floor.
“You think you’re leaving?” His voice is different now. Rough. Almost breathless. “After everything?”
I gasp for air, my hands scrabbling against the floor, searching, reaching—
He steps forward, his foot pressing onto my chest, pinning me down.
I freeze.
The weight is crushing, his body towering over mine, his eyes empty and cold.
“You’re not leaving, Skye,” he murmurs. His voice is soft again. Almost gentle. “You’re never leaving me.”
Then he squats over me and wraps his hands around my throat.
Laura Collins’s basement looks like a child's nightmare brought to life.
The walls are lined with shelves stacked neatly with glass jars—rows upon rows of them, each labeled with meticulous, almost loving care. I step closer, my stomach twisting as I make out the contents.
Teeth. Locks of hair. Tiny, brittle bones.
In other words, fucked up to the moon and back, with a quick detour to Hell.
“Jesus,” Talon breathes. “She really was sentimental about her work.”
Mhm.Work.
“You think?” I ask sarcastically, eyeing a particularly large jar filled with what looks like neatly preserved milk teeth. The label reads Little Smiles, 2017-2022 in looping, whimsical handwriting.
Oh, absolutely not.
Cassian exhales sharply, his fingers flexing at his sides as joins me. He picks up one of the jars and holds it up to the dim light. Inside, a collection of tiny ribs gleams against the glass.
“The Grim was right about this,” he growls. “The punishment's too weak.”
Honestly, it’s almost heartwarming to know that he and Nathaniel gossip about what I say behind my back like two scandalized old ladies at a sewing circle. Next thing I know, they’ll be sipping tea and clutching their pearls. But then again, if I were a human keeping a nearly friendly Grim Reaper on a leash with my two besties, I’d probably want to spill the hot gossip too.
And I concur. The punishment’s definitely too weak.
“It's the only one we can give,” Nathaniel argues. “Torture and death. Pain. That's it.”
Cassian makes a disgruntled noise. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s actually disappointed—not because he expected her to be innocent, but because this particular killer is just so aesthetically disgusting.
“We should do more,” he mutters.
I turn away from the jars and look at the rest of them.
