Page 45 of Cracked Doll

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. The whip lashes across Jacob’s back, tearing through the skin with a sickening sound. He screams—a guttural, primal sound that echoes off the high ceilings.

Crack!

Again. And again. And again.

She beats him with a rhythmic, savage intensity. Jacob tries to scramble away, his heels sliding on the polished floor, but two female staff members step forward, their faces expressionless, pointing sleek black guns at his head. He freezes, trapped, forced to endure the onslaught.

The whip carves deep, bloody furrows into his flesh. One lash catches him across the face, slicing through his eyelid and cheek. Blood sprays, hot and crimson, splattering the gold walls.

And the guests... fuck, the guests are loving it.

I hear a man beside me chuckle, a low, cultured sound. "Exquisite," he murmurs. "Look at the tension in the muscle."

"More wine!" a woman shrieks with a manic giggle, waving her glass at a silent waiter. "This is the best performance of the season!"

They aren't horrified. They’re aroused. They’re celebrating. They treat his agony like a symphony, sipping their vintage scotch while a man is flayed alive in front of them. I feel sick, my stomach churning, but I can't look away. The violence is hypnotic, a dark mirror of the pain I’ve carried in my own soul.

Finally, Abigail stops. She’s breathing hard, her chest heaving, her red hair wild around her bandaged head. She looks like a vengeful goddess of blood.

The staff members move in, grabbing Jacob by his arms. He’s a broken mess, sobbing and leaking blood from every pore. They drag him toward the center of the room where the guillotine stands—a towering, menacing silhouette of steel and wood.

They force his neck into the lunette, pinning him down. He’s still begging, his voice a wet whisper now. "Abby... please... I love you... I still love you..."

The crowd erupts, their voices a chorus of cruelty. "No mercy for the pathetic low-life!" one shouts. "A fitting end for a waste of life!"

Abigail walks slowly toward the machine. She leans down, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a chilling, melodic whisper that carries through the silent room.

"I loved you once, Jacob," she breathes. "That's why I'm going to enjoy watching the light leave your eyes."

She reaches for the rope.

Slam.

The blade drops with a heavy, metallic thud.

There is a wet, slicing sound—the sound of a knife through meat. Blood erupts in a violent spray, a crimson fountain that splashes across the front row of guests. A few of them actually lean into it, laughing as the red droplets stain their expensive black lace and velvet.

The head bounces once, twice, and then rolls across the floor, coming to a stop exactly at Rhys’s polished boots.

I stare at the severed head—the eyes still flickering, the mouth frozen in a final, silent plea. A scream rips from my throat, raw and uncontrolled.

Instantly, Rhys’s strong arms are around me. He pulls me hard against his chest, his hand cupping the back of my head to force my face away from the gore. He holds me tight, his scent of cedar and darkness enveloping me, shielding me from the nightmare.

"There is no fury like a woman's scorn!" a guest bellows, raising a glass of champagne in a toast.

"And it keeps us so wonderfully entertained," another adds, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. "Waiter, another bottle of the 1945. Let's celebrate the cleansing of the world."

The room is a cacophony of laughter and clinking glass, a gothic celebration of death.

Rhys’s voice cuts through the noise, deep and commanding. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, guests. My staff will ensure you are pampered until morning. Please, make yourselves at home."

Without another word, he shifts his grip, holding me up into his arms as my legs wrap tighter around his torso. I cling to him, burying my face in the fabric of his black coat, shivering violently. As he carries me away from the blood-stained stage and the cheering monsters, I realize with a terrifying clarity that I am no longer in the world I knew.

I am in Rhys's world now. And in this world, the only way to survive is to belong to the monster.

I’m clinging to him like a fucking parasite, my legs wrapped tight around his torso, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat. I can’t look. I refuse to look. Every time I close my eyes, I see that severed head rolling across the gold floor, the eyes still twitching, the blood spraying like a goddamn fountain. I bury my face deep into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent—cedar, expensive tobacco, and a hint of something cold—trying to drown out the metallic tang of death that still lingers in my nostrils.

I hear the heavy thud of a door opening, the rush of air, and then the click of a lock as it closes behind us.