Chapter 62: The Curtain Call

My gaze slid across the chamber to the far wall, where a particular rat lay slumped against the stones. Victor. Ragged blond hair, tattoos writhing across his skin as though ashamed of their owner, blood smeared across his ruined nose.

He was motionless. Perfectly still. Too still. And then it hit me. The bastard was playing dead. Gods, what an idiot.

I sashayed forward, hips swaying despite the bruises mottling my sides, the echoes of my boots the only sound in the chamber save for the occasional groan of a half-dead thug.

“Really?” I drawled, lips curling as I reached him. “That’s your big plan, Victor? Collapse like a fainting noble and hope I forget you exist? Saints, darling, if you’re going to feign death, at least commit. Throw in a twitch. A groan. Perhaps foam at the mouth for dramatic flair. This is just lazy.”

I crouched beside him, leaned in close enough to see the faint flutter of his lashes. Oh yes, alive and well.

A smirk tugged at my lips as I raised one delicate hand—then slapped him across the face with a crack that echoed louder than some of the dying men’s final screams. His head snapped to the side, his shoulder jerked, and there it was—the flinch.

A giggle spilled out of me before I could stop it, high and bright, bubbling up like champagne fizzing out of a bottle.

“Oh, saints, you blinked! You flinched! I knew it.” I clapped my hands together, delighted, then leaned over him again, voice dropping to a silky purr. “Playing dead doesn’t suit you. You’re far too ugly to pass for a corpse. Corpses have charm. You, however, have… well, this.”

Victor’s eyes snapped open, his lips curling back into a scowl that twisted his bloodied face into something even more grotesque.

“You little gutter slut,” he spat, the words gurgling through blood. “You’ll rot for this. I’ll carve that smirk off your face and make you choke on it.”

“Mm,” I hummed, tapping my chin thoughtfully as though considering his proposal. “Creative. Violent. A little heavy-handed, if I’m being honest. Have you considered stand-up comedy? I hear there’s a shortage of jokes in the afterlife.”

Behind me, a shadow shifted. Heavy footsteps. The beastman stalked forward, the growl in his chest rumbling like a landslide. He loomed over me, over Victor, his eyes burning, his lips curled back from beneath that mask of his to show teeth that could crunch bone like sugar sticks.

The transformation in Victor was instant. His scowl collapsed, his bravado crumbled, and what replaced it was raw, naked fear. His tattoos seemed to wilt against his skin as he shuddered, his eyes going wide.

“N-no,” he stammered, voice cracking. “Keep that…thing

away from me. Saints, please. Please, just kill me. Do it quick. Don’t let him—don’t let that thing touch me!”

Oh, the music of it. Begging. Whimpering. Groveling. It was a symphony fit for my ears, and gods above, I wasn’t about to let the encore pass unappreciated. I cupped my hand to my ear, leaning closer. “What’s that, darling? Speak up, I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of your dignity dying.”

“I said kill me!” he wailed, tears brimming in his eyes now, his body trembling with the pathetic rhythm of a broken man. “Please. End it.”

I gasped, hand flying to my chest in mock horror. “End it? Oh, but darling, you’ve only just begun. Where’s the fun in finishing you now? No, no, no. I have plans for you. Much bigger plans. You’re far too valuable to waste on a quick, boring death. I intend to humiliate you properly, to use you until you wish you’d never been born, to wring every drop of usefulness out of your wretched little soul. And then—then—perhaps I’ll let the big puppy here chew on your bones.”

Victor whimpered again, shutting his eyes tight as though hoping the world might vanish if he refused to see it. Pathetic. Deliciously pathetic.

I rose to my feet, dusting off my bloodstained skirt with a flourish, and turned my back on him with all the ceremony of a queen dismissing a servant. “But alas, tonight’s not your night. I have bigger things to attend to.”

And with that, I spun on my heel and strolled back toward the center of the chamber, where a small, fragile sound tugged at my ears. Gasping. Ragged, shallow, pained—but alive. Mia.

She lay crumpled near the blood-slick stones, her cloak completely soaked through now, her freckles pale beneath the mask of crimson smeared across her face. Her eyes fluttered, her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. Alive, but barely. Saints above, she was alive.

I crouched beside her, my grin softening just a fraction, though never enough to vanish entirely. “Oh my,” I whispered, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from her cheek. “You’ve got a talent for drama, don’t you? Always swooning, always bleeding, always stealing the scene. If you weren’t dying, I’d almost be jealous.”

But I couldn’t linger. Not when the girl’s breaths rattled like coins at the bottom of a tin cup. She needed help, and I, for all my wit, was not a healer.

So I turned, scanning the chamber until my gaze snagged on one of the surviving gang leaders—a thinner man, his face hollow, his eyes darting with fear, but not the sort of frothing aggression that had plagued the others. Nice and docile. Perfect.

“You,” I said, my voice sharp enough to make him flinch where he knelt among the corpses. “Come here.”

He scrambled forward on hands and knees, bowing so low his forehead nearly split against the stone. “Yes, yes, of course, anything, anything you command, master—”

“Oh please, spare me the groveling,” I sighed, rolling my eyes so hard I nearly sprained something. “Take the girl. Get her medical attention. Now. If she dies, so do you.”

The man’s face lit up as though I’d just anointed him high priest of some holy order. He bowed again, tears spilling from his eyes. “Thank you, thank you for entrusting me with such an honor. I will not fail, master, I swear it on my life.”

“Mm-hm,” I muttered, waving a hand dismissively as though shooing a fly. “Yes, yes, very touching. Off you go before she bleeds out all over my boots.”

He scooped Mia into his trembling arms, bowing three more times before scuttling away like a rat given purpose. Saints help me, if gratitude were coin, I’d be richer than the Warden by now.

I straightened, brushing dust from my skirt, and turned my gaze on the rest of the survivors. Their eyes clung to me like starving men to a feast, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. Excellent. My stage was set.

“Tomorrow,” I announced, my voice slicing through the chamber like a knife dipped in honey. “You will sneak into the courtyard. From there, you’ll receive my instructions. Anyone who fails to comply will be hunted down and killed on the spot. Slowly. Painfully. Creatively if need be.”

They collapsed into bows as though choreographed, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of thanks. “Yes, master! Thank you, master! We are yours to command, master!”

A wicked smile carved its way across my face, sharp and gleaming. Gods above, it was intoxicating. Power. Pure, giddy power.

Victor trailed along with the others, his shoulders hunched, eyes darting like a cornered rat, every step a hurried retreat from the chamber’s lingering menace.

When the last of them had scurried off, silence returned, broken only by the faint drip of blood from the stones. Time slowed, heavy, almost languid. I found myself drifting back to the cage, where the beastman had slumped into a seated position, his massive chest still heaving, his eyes watching me with that strange, unreadable intensity.

I didn’t hesitate. Hesitation has never been my art. I draped myself across his lap like a cat claiming a throne, my arms snaking around his thick neck, my cheek brushing against the rough fabric of his mask.

“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, savoring the heat of his skin bleeding through the linen. “You were magnificent. Truly. My beast, my monster, my darling disaster.”

He rumbled low in his chest, a sound that might have been a growl or might have been something softer.

His cock stirred beneath me and his massive hands fumbled against my sides like a puppy too large for its own body, panting, pawing, eager and clumsy. Saints above, it was almost endearing—if endearing came with the constant threat of being impaled alive.

And then—footsteps.

Rapid, pounding, echoing up from the stairs. My head snapped up, my heart jolting. Well then,here comes the star of the show.

A voice boomed through the shadows, low and sharp. “What’s all this noise then?”

From the darkness, he emerged. Tall, pale, and far too bald for comfort. Two guards flanked him, their masks down, their boots striking in perfect rhythm.

It was Yolmear. The Sectional Warden. My grin sharpened, wicked and bright, as I tightened my arms around the beastman’s neck and tilted my head toward the newcomer.

“Oh, saints, you’re just in time,” I purred, my voice echoing through the chamber like the prelude to a play. “We were just about to start the encore.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep