The Unholy Bride: In God's Name, I Kill

Chapter 16 : Test The Theory

The wind swayed the swing, its creaking sound blending with the rustle of withered leaves beneath Scarlette's feet as she walked along the pavement here in the playground, not far from the mansion. Once again, we were left alone in the mansion, so I decided to take her for a walk because I needed to escape that place, even just for a while.

I finished reading Camila's diary last night, and since then, I've felt uneasy, as if someone or something were right behind me, breathing down my neck. I've discovered things I wish I hadn't, but I knew I needed them to survive this twisted game of what I thought was just revenge, but turned out to be something much darker—a charade, with clues I couldn't piece together all at once.

In desperation, I visited the dungeon after reading the diary, hoping for more answers, as if Camila might miraculously rise from the dead and reveal the things she hadn't written down. But as expected, I left empty-handed, with only more questions lingering in my mind.

Groping for my phone in my pocket, I was pulled from my thoughts as it vibrated, notifying me of a message from my father. He rarely contacted me, so it must be something important.

"You might need this", he emailed, under it was an attachment of photographs of two persons I immediately recognized—Mason and Catherine, engaging in explicit sexual behavior in public places. Some were in a car, others in a hotel lobby, in a parking lot, and there was even CCTV footage in an elevator. I watched it and couldn't help but roll my eyes because they were like animals in heat, but then I was interrupted when a man approached me, so I put my phone away.

"Hi, do you live nearby?" the man asked, as if we were close.

I stared at his face, debating whether I should respond, but I did anyway since he seemed harmless. "Yes," I replied briefly.

"I live over there," he said, pointing in a direction. "But I've never seen you around. Did you just move into the neighborhood?"

"I don't live in this neighborhood," I replied. "Our mansion is in the middle of the forest, and we don't have any neighbors."

"The mansion in the middle of the forest?" he asked, letting out a small chuckle. "The Steels own it."

"That's right." I nodded. "My husband is Roman Steel."

The man stopped laughing, his face dropped into a stunned expression. "You're married to a Steel?"

I held back the urge to roll my eyes and instead gave the man a faint smile. "Yes, that's Scarlette..." I turned sideways to point at the little girl playing on the slide, but my brows furrowed when I realized she was no longer there, and before I could even check where she went, a car swerved past, scattering the withered leaves as it pulled over to the side.

My heart pounded as my husband got out of the car in such a hurry, and I prepared myself to be pulled away from the man I was speaking with. But to my surprise, he walked right past me, his gaze fixed entirely on the playground, then my hands flew to my mouth in shock as he dug through the pile of leaves, pulling his daughter out—her head trickling with blood.

Everything happened so fast and my body seemed to have a mind of its own because I suddenly found myself in Roman's car as we rushed to the hospital. When we arrived, he immediately picked up his daughter and shouted for assistance, so I followed him until Scarlette was taken by the doctors.

I paced back and forth, biting my fingers in worry, trying to figure out how Scarlette had hurt herself. But before I could even process it, my husband yanked me toward the emergency stairs of the hospital, gripping my arm and pinning me painfully against the wall.

"Tell me what happened," he demanded, which made me shiver in fear because he was calm.

"I-I don't know," I winced. "She was just playing there and..."

"And what?" His hold grew even tighter. "You don't know because you were so busy flirting with that man! My daughter would be dead if I didn't arrive!"

"I wasn't flirting with anyone!" I shouted back, but then I bit my lower lip and lowered my head because I didn't mean it, he didn't let it slide.

He tightly gripped my face, his jaw firmly clenched. "Do you want me to kill that man, huh?"

Tears stung my eyes as I shook my head, desperately mumbling words of pleading, but he wouldn't listen. He pressed me harder against the wall, and the back of my head slammed into it with such force that it felt as though part of my skull had cracked.

His eyes were shadowed, and there was no hesitation in his gaze, as though he might end me right there. I tapped his hands, silently pleading for him to release me, but when he didn't, I was left with no choice but to try something else. Slowly, I lifted my hands to his face, gently caressing his cheeks—my gaze soft and tender, just as the angel he believed me to be.

My mother once told me that being a woman means you're born with both pain and power—the power to command a man's will with a single touch, with invisible strings in your hands, waiting for someone to be bound and dance to your every command like a puppet.

Right now, I was testing that theory. But the person in front of me wasn't just any man—he was also evil.

My teeth felt like they were going to crack from his grip on my face, but I didn't stop caressing his, until his hands and eyes softened, gradually releasing me. Only then was I able to breathe properly. I coughed and slapped my chest to regulate the oxygen flow in my body while he turned away, his head tilting back as he gazed at the ceiling with both hands on his hips.

I could tell he was working to control his temper, so I gave him space, also fearful of how he might react if I approached too soon. I kept an eye on him as his breathing slowed, and once I was sure he had calmed down, I stepped closer and gently placed my hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, soothing his arm.

It was what he wanted to hear, I knew it. He wanted to feel like he was still the one who was in control of this situation and I was still his submissive puppet, when the truth was, the tables had turned—though little and slow, but it still did.

"I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't have let Scarlette play alone," I said, my voice fragile. "I-It's my fault."

I waited for him to respond, but nearly a minute had passed and he still hadn't. So, I slowly let go of him, my hands trembling as I took a step back to give him space. My head lowered as I did, too afraid to meet his gaze.

Maybe I had already used up my luck, and he had figured out that I was trying to manipulate him—that was why this wasn't working.

Retreating, I spun around to walk out, but then a gasp escaped from my lips when I got yanked back. The back of my head hit the wall again, but it was my lips that felt like crashing from my husband's rough kiss. He lifted me, so I wrapped my legs around his waist and went along with him.

I wanted to congratulate myself, to praise my own patience, because every bit of affection he showed me felt like progress. He was a monster, incapable of love, but I knew that when the time came—when he finally learned how to love—that would be the moment I'd shove in his face that he didn't deserve it.

"Turn around," he commanded, not waiting for me to do it because he spun me around the second he had put me down. "You know that I love it when you scream, but now, shut your mouth."

Without warning, he entered me from behind. His every thrust was rough, making me break his command as I moaned and wailed loudly, my voice echoing through this empty staircase.

I couldn't help it as I felt like tearing up, so I insisted on moving his hand on my mouth to shut me up. I bit on it for a painful couple of minutes until he was done, letting me collapse on the floor while he fixed himself before helping me up. This had never happened before because he used to always leave me after like I was nothing more than an object for his entertainment. But I guess I was no longer just an object to him—I now meant something, and I knew it wasn't just because I was his sacrifice. My name was now carved into his stone-cold heart, as if it were the inscription on a tombstone—my own tombstone.