The steel cuts deep.
I pull hard and feel the blade drag across muscle and cartilage before catching briefly against bone. Then the flesh opens under the pressure and blood erupts down his chest, spraying across Brooke’s arm and the front of my shirt.
The man staggers forward with a choking sound trapped in his throat.
For a moment something darker inside my head pushes forward.
I want to drive the knife deeper. I want to keep cutting until his head separates from his shoulders and rolls across the same floor where he violated her.
But there isn’t time for that.
The man collapses between us. His body strikes the tile with a heavy thud while he chokes on the blood flooding his airway.
Brooke rips her knife free from his chest as he falls.
The wolf mask turns sideways against the floor. His legs twitch once before he goes completely still.
Brooke and I both look down.
The girl still lies on the floor. Her empty eyes stare at the ceiling.
My hands tighten around the knife.
Brooke steps over the wolf mask man like he’s trash. She keeps her gun up as we move back into the hall.
We take the stairs fast and quietly.
The top floor is warmer, and it smells like expensive linens. Light spills from the end of the hallway. Voices drift out, casual and smug, like they’re in a private club.
Then I hear a girl scream. It isn’t a startled scream. It is pain. It is panic. It is the sound of someone realizing nobody is coming to help her.
Brooke’s grip tightens on her gun. Her eyes flick to mine.
I nod once. We move.
We reach the doorway and stop just long enough to take inventory.
John is in the center of the room. He’s wearing the goat mask again. Four other Collective members stand nearby, all of them wearing animal masks. Their knives catch the overhead light every time they shift.
A girl is laid across the Collective symbol on the floor. Her arms are pinned back. Her legs are forced apart. She’s crying and thrashing, and the only reason she is still moving is because they are letting her.
They talk over her like she isn’t human.
One of the masked men laughs and says something to the others. Another replies, still calm, still entertained. Their voices sound normal. That is what makes it worse.
John lifts his hand slightly, and the room settles like they’re trained.
“Before we begin,” John smiles, “let’s make a toast.”
The girl’s scream turns into a choked sob.
John tilts his head like he’s listening to music.
“I’ll go get the wine,” he adds.
He steps away from the group and walks toward the hall, unhurried, confident that nothing in this villa can touch him.
Brooke watches him go. Her body changes without her moving. Her focus narrows. Her breathing turns quiet.
