Vernon shrugged off his coat, the fabric sliding from his shoulders. Beneath it, the pale stretch of skin where the bottle had struck was flushed an angry red. Without a word, he hung the coat neatly on the stand, movements calm and deliberate.
As he slipped his coat open, Ira's breath caught. Fear crawled up her spine, cold and suffocating — but she forced it down. She clung to her defiance like armor, trying to steady her racing mind, to convince herself she wasn't afraid.
She screamed, loud and sharp:
"What do you want from me? Rape me too? Huh?" Her voice cracked. "I don't fear you, monster. Just wait. Just wait and watch. Until your last day comes. You'll die such a horrifying death."
Vernon stood at the foot of the bed, watching her. Silent. Unreadable.
Then , he took one slow step closer.
Ira scooted back, voice rising. "Don't come near! Don't you dare do anything to me!"
Vernon stepped toward the bed, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. The mattress dipped when one knee pressed into it. Then the other.
He crawled forward deliberately, the sheets wrinkling beneath his weight, gaze never leaving hers. Each movement was measured, controlled—closing the distance inch by inch until the air between them felt thin, charged, almost suffocating.
Vernon caught her wrists again—easily—yanked them above her head and pinned them to the headboard with one hand. He leaned in until their faces were inches apart, his breath warm against her lips.
"You need to stop talking like that." His voice was low, almost gentle. "You need to behave. Never speak to Krossvales that way."
Ira bared her teeth. "I'll talk however I want. What will you do, huh? Kill me too? You monster!"
A beat of silence.
Then, Vernon whispered quieter, calmer: "Why are you so angry? I know they haven't touched you yet. Then what? (A pause) Was that girl… was she someone close to you?"
Ira's face crumpled for one terrible second.
Then rage rushed back.
"All of you will get your karma! Every disgusting thing you've done—it's coming back! You'll choke on it!"
Vernon said nothing.
She screamed, tears spilling hot and fast. "Why? Why did you take her? What did she ever do to you? Why did you torture her like that—why?!"
The pain in her voice sliced through the room.
Vernon's jaw tightened—almost imperceptibly. Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt. Recognition. A wound that had never closed.
Ira spat again—wet, furious—hitting his cheek.
"You're disgusting. All of you will rot. I'll make sure every single one of you dies screaming—"
This time his fingers closed around her chin—harder. Her face flushed crimson under the pressure.
"Quiet." The word was steel. "Stay quiet if you don't want to end the same way she did. Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut."
He released her face.
Ira collapsed into sobs—deep, wrenching, the kind that tore from the soul. She screamed curses between gasps, body shaking.
"I hate you! I hate you! Die! Just fucking die—!"
Vernon watched her for several long seconds.
He could sense how deeply she was hurting—could almost feel it himself, that raw, hollow ache that comes when someone loses the person they loved most, the one they cared for beyond words. He'd never known that kind of grief for anyone except his monstrous father, yet he had witnessed it often enough in others to recognise it instantly.
"Calm down," he said, voice low. "Behave, or you will end up dying."
His words were rather worried than threatening.
"It's you who deserves death! Just die! Rot in hell! "
She was crying harder than she ever had—shoulders shaking, voice shredding.
Vernon watched her for another long moment.
He couldn't stand it—the sight of her like this.
Her pain entered him like a second heartbeat; watching her cry, so utterly scattered and broken, hurt him in way that was unbearable.
He tilted his head.
"You want the monsters dead, huh?"
She hiccupped, startled.
"Can you do that?"
He asked, motionless .
Ira's crying hitched. She stared up at him—shocked, red-eyed.
Without another word Vernon reached near a drawer and pulled it out.
A flash of steel.
A slim black knife appeared in his hand.
Ira's eyes widened.
She flinched away instinctively, but Vernon was already moving.
He caught her waist and drew her closer—then down—sliding her off the edge of the bed until her bare feet met the cold floor.
Still holding her against him, he took her trembling right hand in his, wrapped her shaking fingers around the hilt, and forced her grip closed, tight enough that her knuckles blanched.
"Will killing me give you peace?" His voice was sharp. "Is that what you want?"
He guided the point to his own chest—right over his heart.
"Then kill me." He leaned closer. "Right now. If it brings her back. If it ends your pain. Do it."
Ira tried to jerk away.
His hand clamped over hers—iron.
He yanked her hand down hard, from sternum to navel.
The blade kissed pale, scarred skin.
"If ending me erases every sin… every scream…do it."
He pulled.
The knife sank— into his abdomen.
Ira's eyes widened in horror. "Stop—!"
Vernon didn't stop. He forced the blade deeper—inches by inches—blood welled instantly—dark, thick—spilling hot and fast from the gaping slit carved across his abdomen, the crimson welling up in a sudden, obscene surge, then sheeting down over twitching muscle and pale skin in heavy, glistening ropes that broke and pattered onto the floor below.
Ira screamed. "Stop!"
He released her hand. Ira's body jolted backwards.
The knife slid free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving behind a raw, deep cut in the flesh just below his ribs—a dark, puckered mouth ringed by swollen, angry-red edges where the blade had torn through skin and muscle.
The knife clattered to the floor.
His hands flew to the wound instantly, palms clamping the wound.
Blood welled up immediately between the gaps in his fingers—thick, dark crimson squeezing out in rhythmic pulses with every frantic heartbeat—hot and slick, coating his knuckles, running in bright rivulets down the backs of his hands and along his wrists.
His abdominal muscles clenched beneath the pressure, trembling under the strain; every shallow breath made fresh blood bubble up and spill over the edges of his palms, soaking into the waistband of his pants in a widening, inky stain.
Vernon exhaled sharply through his nose—shoulders bowing slightly as pain registered hard.
Ira stared—frozen— heart slamming against her ribs—she had never seen a living, bleeding man like this.
The she bolted, bare feet slapping marble, and ran for the door.
Vernon straightened—slow, deliberate—and followed.
She reached the top of the grand staircase. Guards and servants below turned as one—staring at the blood-streaked girl in the school uniform.
Mr. Eldrin's face went ashen.
Some guards were already coming for her.
Ira hesitated on the landing.
She stood shaking in the middle of the stairs.
Then Vernon appeared from the top of the grand staircase—blood dripping steadily from beneath his palm pressed to the wound.
Watching Vernon like that, everyone was shocked.
How could such a delicate girl stab him when even trained martial fighters couldn't do that!
The guards moved towards her.
But Vernon screamed—loud, lethal.
"No one touches her."
Every guard froze mid-step.
"Or I will kill the one who tries."
Silence.
Vernon's gaze burned into Ira's back.
"She is only mine to touch."
Ira was startled.
*He is crazy!*
He closed the distance, blood trailing behind him.
Ira was shocked, trying to protest but he didn't cared. His one arm hooked around her waist.
He lifted Ira again—over his shoulder—ignoring her renewed screams.
Blood smeared across her hip, warm and sticky. He didn't care.
He carried her back.
The horrified servants kept watching the scene with their thighs shaking.
Mr. Eldrin's face had gone gray. He was extremely worried about Vernon—he was bleeding really bad!
To be continued...