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Harvey worked methodically and did her second foot the same way…until both were almost severed, blood pooling dark beneath her chair.

The girl’s eyes were glassy now, wide with shock. Her breaths were faster, harder through her nose, but she couldn’t scream through the stitches sealing her mouth. All she could do was stare at me, tears tracking down her cheek, mixing with the blood that dripped from her chin.

I couldn’t blink.

I couldn’t breathe.

My body was locked in place, but inside I was screaming, raw and endless, tearing at the drug that held me prisoner while I watched her slowly die.

Harvey stepped back, wiping the cleaver on his pants. “Now you’ll stay where you’re put,” he said softly. “No more dancing. You’ll just be…good.”

The girl’s body slumped as she passed out and Harvey sighed, almost sadly, then reached for the knife again. He ended her with one deep cut across the throat and blood poured out of her as her life drained out onto the floor.

While she was still bleeding out, Harvey reached for a clean floral dress from a nearby shelf—the same kind of modest, old-fashioned print he’d dressed Emmy-Lee in. It was pale blue with tiny white daisies…something a grandmother might wear to church. He knelt in front of the girl’s corpse, humming softly under his breath as he cut away her ruined clothes with careful snips of the scissors, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from her skin like he was unwrapping a gift.

Harvey wiped her down with a damp cloth—soothing strokes across her arms, her chest, her thighs—washing away the blood and the sweat and the evidence of her pain. The cloth turned pink, then red, then pink again as he rinsed it in a bucket of water beside him.

“Good girls dress like ladies,” he murmured in a soft, instructive voice. “They’re modest and pretty. Never showing too much. Never drawing the wrong kind of attention. Now my dear girl…now you’ll be proper.”

A scream built in my throat, clawing its way up, but it never made it past my lips. My chest heaved uselessly, panic crashing through me as I fought against a body that wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t move, wouldn’t do anything but sit there and watch.

He slipped the floral dress over her head, smoothing it down her lifeless body with reverent hands. The fabric settled perfectly, covering her from neck to ankles, the hem brushing the tops of her severed feet. He buttoned it slowly, each tiny pearl button fastened with care, his fingers lingering as though he were dressing a bride.

My vision blurred, tears spilling over as I tried again to move, to do something, anything—my fingers, my legs, my voice—but nothing responded. I was locked inside myself, forced to witness every second of it.

He moved to her hair next, picking up an old brush and working through the girl’s tangles. Strands of dark hair slipped through his fingers as he hummed that same lullaby, the tune gentle and haunting in the cold air.

“You’ll be quiet now,” he said softly, almost to himself. “No more noise. No more running. Just stillness. Just goodness.”

When her hair was neat, he parted it down the middle and braided it loosely, tying the ends with a pale ribbon he pulled from his pocket. He stepped back, admiring his work. “There,” he said, smiling with genuine satisfaction. “Much better. A proper lady again.”

He lifted her limp form with surprising tenderness, cradling her like a sleeping child, and carried her to one of the deep freezers along the wall. The lid opened with a low hiss of cold air and he placed her inside gently, arranging her arms across her chest, and smoothing the dress one last time.

“Rest now,” he whispered, brushing a final kiss across her forehead. “You’re good. You’re quiet. You’re home.” He closed the lid and the freezer hummed softly in response.

Then he turned to me and his smile returned—soft, patient, proud. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

Panic exploded through me. My heart slammed against my ribs, fast and desperate, my lungs dragging in air that didn’t feel like enough as I watched him walk to another cabinet and open it and grab something.

He turned back toward me and in his hands was a contraption that belonged in a nightmare. A medieval chastity belt from hell…one that didn’t just lock. A thick, cruel spike curved upward from the center plate, designed to pierce and punish any woman who dared try to give herself to a man.

He was holding it like it was precious as he walked back over to me.

Tears were still coming and I couldn’t stop them, even though I didn’t want him to see me cry. My chest heaved, but no sound came out. Just the quiet, broken sobs I couldn’t swallow.

He walked back toward me, singing again, and the iron glinted dully in the low light as he knelt in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint rust and oil on it. “Kelsey didn’t like this very much,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But I think you’ll do all right with it.”

My vision blurred with tears, but in the haze of terror, something else slipped through.

Sterling.

I saw him in my mind, as clear as if he were standing right here in this room. He was staring at me with so much love.

At least I’d had that. At least I’d been able to experience a love like that, even if it wasn’t nearly long enough…even if it ended here, in this cold room with a psychopath holding a torture device between his hands.

At least I’d had Sterling.

The thought didn’t make the fear go away or stop the tears. But it did make me able to lift my chin, just a fraction…enough to meet his eyes.