The black car cleaved the velvet night, a low-slung, lethal beast of steel and shadow. The atmosphere was a heavy, suffocating thing— a physical entity pressing the air from their lungs.
Sophia, her hands clenched and rigid upon the wheel, finally shattered the tense quiet, her voice a low, wire-tight rasp.
"Are you honestly going to see this freak marriage—this whole grotesque spectacle—through to the bitter end?"
Elena flinched, dragged abruptly from a terrifying, distant reverie.
"What? What was that you said?"
"Where the hell were you, Elena? Zoned out. Miles away."
"Something's off. Seriously, catastrophically wrong."
"State your point."
Elena turned, fixing Sophia with a gaze as sharp and hard as shattered obsidian.
"Are you truly convinced that bitch is dead? She's a goddamn cockroach with a legion of lives. I refuse to believe Frederick is calling us back like this, with such unnerving calm, such horrifying ease."
Sophia swallowed, the sound dry and grating in the silence. Doubt, cold and deep as an Arctic tide, flooded her.
"Okay, when you articulate it that way, it does sound like he's obscuring something monstrous... but we're virtually at the gates now. We'll have our answer soon enough."
"I have a vile, nauseating feeling," Elena muttered, her eyes scanning the encroaching shadows.
"Toss me a piece."
"A gun? You? Since when did you start handling hardware?"
Elena's lips curled into a sharp, predatory smile that held no humor.
"My darling husband took the time to instruct me on how to plant a bullet in a skull. It was one of our more intimate lessons."
"A lunatic meeting another lunatic. A match made in the darkest corner of hell," Sophia scoffed, yet a sliver of grudging respect softened the edge of her sarcasm.
Elena glanced at her reflection in the side mirror, holding her own gaze for a beat— a private, wicked smile blooming on her mouth.
"What in God's name is that smug look for now?"
"Ha. That," Elena breathed, "is entirely my secret."
"Your secrets can burn in hell. We're here."
Elena retrieved the pistol— a cold, dense anchor against the frantic beat of her pulse— and shoved it into the waistband of her trousers. She stepped out onto the gravel drive with a brutal, uncompromising confidence.
Frederick Blackwood met them on the sprawling stone steps, his greeting overly theatrical, a calculated performance of warmth.
"Welcome, my beautiful doctor," he purred, leaning in to perform a ritualistic kiss upon her hand.
Elena snatched her arm back, her motion a violent dismissal before his fingers could even brush her skin.
"Hmm. Still a little wildcat, I see, my dear," he drawled, amusement glinting in his grey eyes.
Elena ignored him, sweeping past and murmuring to Sophia, the sheer venom in her voice almost palpable.
"That is not the face of a man mourning his sister's death. He's thrilled."
She stopped dead center in the massive, echoing hall, crossing her arms— her posture an aggressive challenge.
"So. I heard the news. Where is the body?"
Frederick's eyes narrowed, the coldness that settled in them dangerous and ancient.
"I am aware you are a professional, Elena, but is it not a bit harsh to bypass the basic courtesy of condolences and immediately label her a 'body'?"
Elena stared him down, utterly unmoved.
"Fine. My condolences. Now, guide me to your sister so I can cut her open."
A razor-thin, mocking smile flashed across her mouth.
A heavy, sickening thud behind her stole her focus. Sophia lay inert, a dark stain of unconsciousness against the pristine marble.
As Elena leaned instinctively toward her fallen ally, a set of powerful hands clamped around her from behind, and a needle plunged viciously into the exposed skin of her neck.
A voice, low and laced with triumphant malice, hissed directly into her ear:
"Hello, darling. I heard you were looking for me."
Elena's vision swam, her eyes locking desperately onto the face of her attacker— the woman who was supposed to be profoundly, irrevocably dead.
"I knew a whore like you wouldn't die so easily," she spat out, the words her final, desperate defiance before the drug seized control, and her body went frighteningly limp, collapsing to the floor.
She woke to a blinding flash of agony and frustration. Her wrists and ankles were secured, brutalized against the wrought-iron posts of a massive bed frame.
"Fucking hell. Why am I always waking up tied down these days?"
Frederick sat in a high-backed, leather chair, watching her with a terrifying stillness— his gaze a palpable, invasive weight. He allowed a slow, chilling smile to spread across his face.
Elena masked her rising terror with a biting, familiar retort.
"So, what is it, Frederick? Tying women to a bed your new favorite hobby? You're losing your edge; this is cliché."
His smile evaporated, instantly replaced by a mask of cold, violent fury.
"Who the fuck is he?"
"What? What are you babbling about? Let me go, you sick bastard!"
He sprang up, slamming his fist into the wall. The plaster groaned, spider-webbing with cracks under the sheer force. He seized her face, his fingers digging into her jawbone.
"Who the fuck is that guy that married you?" he roared, his voice raw, shredded.
Elena didn't hesitate, summoning a final defiant breath and spitting straight into his eye.
"Fuck you, man."
He wiped the spittle away, his expression hardening into pure, unadulterated menace.
"I asked you who he is, and why I can't find a single shred of dirt on him."
"And why do you care?"
He laughed— a harsh, almost hysterical sound that echoed off the high ceiling.
"Why? You dare ask why? Are you blind, or simply a fool? I will erase him."
She fought to stall, her mind a frantic battlefield against the drug's residual fog, her wrists straining against the unyielding metal.
"Why? What did he do to you?"
Frederick leaned over her, seizing her shackled hands and wrenching them higher up the post.
"Heh. Trying to buy time with questions, weren't you?"
He looked down at her with a sick, possessive delight.
"But I'll tell you, since you're so eager to know the fate of your husband... soon to be your ex-husband."
His laugh was deafening, a sound of absolute psychological rupture.
"You're pathetic and insane," she sneered, her voice cracking.
"Insane? I've spent years wanting one true smile from you, one soft, honest word, and you go and marry some shadow without telling me? A man you barely know? Like I was nothing to you?"
Elena smiled— a cruel, mocking twist of her lips, a final weapon.
"If you knew you were nothing from the start, why are you putting on this pathetic show now?"
The comment struck him like a physical blow, and the rage that twisted his face was total. He stood up, towering over her, and with a single, violent motion, ripped his shirt from his body, exposing taut muscle and scars.
Elena's throat went bone-dry with sudden, cold dread.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The metallic click of his belt buckle filled the ensuing silence. His eyes, devoid of all reason, began to devour her body with explicit, hungry intent.
He yanked one of her legs up, resting her knee brutally high upon his shoulder. With one hand, he pinned both her wrists high above her head to the post; the other clamped down on her thigh.
"Enough talking," he grunted, the words thick with lust and brutal power.
"Tonight, I'll make you mine. I'll make this body forget that bastard ever touched you."