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He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a garbled whimper.

I reach for the knife on the nearby table—a beautiful piece, the blade sharpened to a point like shark’s teeth. The handle is wrapped in my special leather I made myself.

“You’ve been very patient down here,” I mumble, running my thumb along the serrated edge. A thin line of red appears on my skin. “But I think it’s time we finished this, don’t you? Put you out of your misery, hm?”

He shakes his head frantically, making the chains rattle.

I smile beneath my mask.

Bye, bye, Nico. It’s a shame my best friend has to die, but that’s the fate of any man who tries to harm my little bird.

Only I can harm her. Scare her. Make her scream.

The knife slides into his throat like it’s cutting through warm butter. Blood gushes hot over my hand, and Nico makes a horrible gurgling sound as his body convulses.

Shit, that’s some good stuff.

I hold the blade there, watching the light fade from his eyes, feeling the moment his struggles weaken and then stop entirely.

When he’s finally still, I pull the knife free and wipe it clean on his shirt.

Ah, now to make the preparations.

The rest of him will be useful. I’ve gotten good at my leatherwork over the years. There’s an art to leatherworking, especially leather made from human skin. A skill most people don’t appreciate. The tanning process alone takes weeks—scraping the flesh, treating the hide, stretching and drying it until it’s perfect.

But the end result?

Worth every minute.

Nico will make a beautiful piece when I’m finished with him, more useful than his irksome mouth ever was alive.

I look at my shelf of preserved pieces for a moment, trying to get ideas for Nico, savoring them before turning away. I’m mentally mapping out the cuts I’ll need to make when the temperature in the room drops just a fraction.

The candles flicker.

Dammit, mother. Not the time.

A soft laugh drifts through the room. “Hot,” she purrs, her voice echoing strangely in the confined space. She’s standing near Nico’s body, in the same white gown she died in, dark hair falling perfectly over one shoulder. She tilts her head as she studies his corpse like it’s a piece of art. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, darling.”

I scoff and wipe my hands on a clean cloth. “You scared Blair earlier, you know. You can’t do that again.”

“Oh, did I?” She sounds pleased. “That girl has such a pretty fear. I almost forgot how lovely it tastes.”

I finally face her fully. “Stay away from her.”

Her expression shifts, something colder sliding underneath the beauty. “Oh? Defending the little girl now? How sweet. And how very unlike you.”

“She… doesn’t need you poking around her.”

“She’s a vessel.”

“She’s mine.”

“She’s my vessel,” my mother corrects, sauntering closer. “A beautiful one at that. Soft skin. Good bones. That face…” Her voice drops to something hungry. “She would suit me perfectly. Imagine it, Cage. Me walking around in her body. We could be together properly again, do our work. No more of this half-existence.”

I shake my head once. “No.”

“No?” She laughs. “Since when do you tell me no?”