Page 6 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

ISAIA

It’s the middle of the night when my phone rings, and my first thought as I jolt awake is that it’s her.

That her name’s gonna light up my screen and maybe—just maybe—she still wants me.

My chest seizes, hand frozen mid-reach like the world might split in two if I touch it.

I’m not breathing. I can’t. Because if it’s not her.

.. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do with what’s left of me.

I wipe my palms over my eyes, trying to swallow down whatever emotion it is that’s hammering against my ribs, then reach for the phone.

My heart does this thing where it tears loose and dives straight into the fucking ground. “Caelian,” I grind out like his name’s a curse. And sometimes it is. “What the fuck do you want?” I bark into the phone.

“I’ve forgotten what a ray of sunshine you can be.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait.”

I exhale. “What?”

“We got a problem. I’m texting you an address. Get your ass and that ugly car of yours here asap.”

A wave of impatient rage swells within me, but I hold it down, smother it.

I hang up without saying anything more. The covers are off in one shove, my feet hitting the cold floor, body tight with everything I’m trying not to feel.

Images of her face flash in my head, taunting me, like they do every waking hour while I’m not with her.

It took damn near a whole bottle of bourbon to even pretend I didn’t feel her absence rotting me from the inside out.

Caelian’s text lights up my phone’s screen, and twenty minutes later, I pull into the lot at the address he sent.

The place is an estate—one of those towering, over-the-top mansions that scream old money and new crimes.

It belongs to Rowan De Luca, a regular at Myth. Rowan’s our go-to guy when Gabriel needs help with clearing customs on shipments, the one who smooths over any legal snags or bribes the right officials when things get tricky.

The mansion looms ahead, a beast of stone and glass, exuding arrogance and wealth. As I step out of the car, a gust of wind cuts through my jacket, and the chill seeps into my bones.

Caelian’s outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his lips, his posture casual, but his eyes tell a different story.

“What the fuck is going on?” I ask as I approach.

He exhales a cloud of smoke, flicks the cigarette into the gravel, and crushes it underfoot. “Oh, brother. You gotta see it to believe it.”

“See what?”

“Just brace yourself.” He turns, pushing open the front door, motioning for me to follow.

Inside, the place drips with luxury—a gaudy display of wealth that reeks of desperation to impress.

Golden chandeliers hang from high ceilings, glistening with a sickeningly ostentatious glow. The air smells of aged whisky and expensive cigars, a cocktail of old money and escapism. There's a sinful decadence to it all, a bold flaunting of illicit dollars.

We move past the grand staircase, each step amplifying the sense that something’s off. There’s a tension here, thick, clinging to every surface. A dark wrongness hanging in the air, something you can almost taste. But nothing could have prepared me for what greets us in the living room.

My breath hitches as my gaze locks on the grotesque scene before me. “What. The. Fuck?”

Caelian doesn’t even flinch. “Told you,” he says, his voice flat, as if the horror in front of us has numbed him.

In the center of the lavish living room, tied to a Victorian-style pillar, is Mrs. De Luca. Naked.

Dead.

My pulse stammers, pounding in my ears as I absorb the gruesome details. “Jesus Christ.”

The once pristine white pillar is now streaked with thick smears of red still dripping down in thin rivulets, pooling at her feet like some twisted, macabre waterfall.

The stark contrast between the blood and the room's elegance creates an almost surreal, nightmarish image—like someone tore open a vein in a goddamn cathedral.

Her body—completely bare, tied with thick rope to the post—slumps unnaturally, held up only by the tension in the bindings.

Rope digs into her flesh, causing crimson to seep through, soaking into the fibers like a sponge, her skin ghostly white, lifeless, and the violence of the display strikes with gut-wrenching force.

“Fuck,” I mutter, stepping forward despite every instinct screaming at me to turn away.

Blood isn’t new to me. Violence, murder—hell, it’s practically in my DNA. But this? This is something else. It’s not just the murder. It’s the ritualistic brutality of it. The obscene display of power. It’s meant to be a message. A dark, bloody signature left for us to decipher.

The worst part? I’ve seen this before.

We all have.

Micah.

“Looks familiar, right?” Caelian’s tone lacks the sarcastic edge it usually has.

“This is insane.”

Mrs. De Luca’s lips are sewn shut with thick, crude black thread, X’s jaggedly woven across her mouth as if they were done hastily, violently.

Three stitches. One already torn open. But it’s her eyes—or the absence of them—that sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.

Her sockets are empty, blood crusted around the edges, the dark, gaping holes staring back at me as if they’re mocking us.

“This can’t be real,” I whisper, my voice strangled, though every sick detail screams that it is.

Caelian steps up beside me. “Oh, it’s real, brother. I don’t know what this is, but it’s fucking real.”

We stand frozen, tension wrapping around us like a noose. Everything about what we’re looking at takes us back a few years, when Micah, the brother we never knew we had, went on a murderous rampage, killing in the name of God.

Micah was a fucking lunatic, using religion to justify his twisted actions.

His mind was broken, corrupt, and he even became fixated on Mirabella.

He tried to kill her, convinced that her beauty was to blame for his "sinful" desires.

She still carries the scar of his sick obsession—a constant reminder of how far his depravity went.

But we killed him. Buried him. Yet it’s like I’m staring at his resurrection right here in front of me.

Alexius and Maximo storm into the room, their expressions as dark and twisted as the scene we’re forced to witness. Their usual calm, deadly composure is cracking under the weight of it all, fury and confusion battling for dominance on their faces.

“Alexius, what the fuck is going on?” I ask, my voice thick, my chest tight.

Alexius doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he holds up a piece of paper, and my stomach twists as I step closer to read it.

“Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly.”

Deuteronomy 32:35

Heat drains out of me as the words sink in. “This... is that written in her…?”

Alexius gives a tight nod, his jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

“This is exactly how he did it. How is that possible?”

Maximo steps in with a half-shrug, his face unreadable. “We’re not sure.”

The room seems to spin for a second, reality warping as my thoughts scramble to connect the dots.

The memory of Micah’s killings slams into me, the way he tortured his victims, leaving twisted religious verses written in their blood.

The method, the verses—it’s all too familiar. But Micah is dead. We made sure of it.

“This can’t be happening.” I narrow my eyes as I stare at the body. “Every detail.”

Maximo moves closer, arms crossed, the leather of his jacket groaning under the pressure. “We might be looking at a copycat.”

“A copycat?” Caelian snorts, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s one dead woman, not a Netflix docuseries. For all we know, she’s a cheating wife and all this,” he waves his hand in front of the body, “is just a horny idiot who tied her up and forgot the safe word.”

I glare at him. “Are you serious? This is the exact same way Micah murdered those girls.”

“It’s not impossible. Maybe there’s a Murders-Are-Us website where they list a thousand different ways to do it, and this son of a bitch just happened to have picked the same one Micah did.”

“Are you that dumb, or is this your fucked-up version of trying not to expect the worst?”

“I'm just trying to look at this from all angles, not buying into the fear and jumping to conclusions.”

“Conclusions?” I spit out, throwing my hands up in exasperation. “The proof is right there!” I point at the body, and Caelian starts rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I know, okay. Jesus. Just trying to find an explanation that doesn’t involve us being fucked up the ass sideways with this shit.”

Alexius interrupts, his voice low, dangerous. “Whoever did this knows exactly what they’re doing. And it’s personal.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of the murder pressing down on us like a storm brewing overhead. There’s something about the way the blood runs. The fucking silence of it all. My skin’s crawling, and I don’t even know why.

My eyes drift back to the body, the gory message that hangs in the air like a curse. And there’s one detail of the old murders rushing through my head.

I stalk closer, sliding on gloves from my jacket pocket, my gaze locked on her thighs. There’s a sickening familiarity about the way her legs are positioned—spread unnaturally, forced apart as if posed to send a message.

My stomach tightens with dread, every step toward her feeling heavier, like I’m wading through a nightmare that refuses to end.

“What are you doing?” Caelian’s voice grates behind me, but I don’t respond. Not yet. My mind is racing, pulling up memories. The details, the similarities—it’s too damn close to what we’ve seen before.

Alexius shifts beside me, his eyes narrowing as he watches me crouch near the body. “What do you see?”

“Fuck me,” Maximo curses, which leads me to believe we’re thinking the same thing.

With trembling hands, I reach between her legs and wrap my fingers around the rough wooden…

thing lodged inside her. The second I pull, it comes free with a wet, gut-churning squelch that echoes louder than it should.

My stomach churns, blood dripping from it as I hold it up, the weight of it almost unbearable.

“Isaia, is that…” Alexius’ voice cuts off.

“A cross.”

Just like Micah.

“Motherfucker,” Alexius growls, his thunderous voice echoing like a death knell in the room.

It feels like ice in my hands—unnervingly cold, the weight of it far more than physical. As I turn it over, my breath hitches, all the oxygen leaves my body in one brutal exhale.

Intricately carved into the wooden cross, a word sliced through the grain in jagged, deliberate strokes—like it wasn’t etched, but clawed in with rage and purpose, each letter a promise soaked in blood.

“What does it say?” Caelian leans over my shoulder, and I’m barely fucking breathing as I choke out the word…

“Punishment.”