One Remains
Love, Vicious Thing Masterlist
Rhysand x Vampyr!Reader
Summary: You continue hunting down the males responsible for what happened to you, leaving little room for mercy. With only two names left, your revenge draws closer to its end.
Warnings: Graphic violence, murder, blood and gore, vampirism/blood drinking, animalistic feeding, strangulation, choking, physical assault, body horror, references to sexual assault, torture-like intimidation, victim blaming, alcohol-related references, death.
A/N: This is a collection of One-shots organized in chronological order for a continuous story. Parts to this story may not be posted in timeline order.
WC: 2.6k
Six. Five. Four. Three.
Four were dead. Two remained.
You kept the count in your head because it gave the week structure.
Without it, the days blurred too easily.
There had been no sleep to divide one from the next, no exhaustion to drag you under and offer even a few merciful hours of nothing. There was only the endless dark beneath the mountain, the sting of hunger in your throat, and the names you repeated until they no longer sounded like names at all.
Six males had followed Royce that night. Six had touched you. Every one of them had laughed.
Four were dead.
Locke would make five.
He had been easier to find than you expected.
The males you had already hunted were predictable creatures. They returned to the same taverns, the same gambling rooms, the same private clubs where servants were trained not to look too closely at the stains on their sleeves. They surrounded themselves with people because they believed witnesses meant safety.
The first had died in an alley behind a pleasure house, his mouth still open around your name when you tore out his throat. The second had attempted to bargain. The third had tried to fight. The fourth had recognized you only after you smiled.
Locke had run.
Now, you stood in the center of his apartment while he cowered behind the bathroom door.
The rooms were smaller than you remembered. Perhaps everything appeared smaller now. Hallways, furniture, males. The world had once seemed full of things powerful enough to contain you. Now, nothing did.
The apartment itself had decayed around him. The carpet beneath your boots held old stains in shades too dark to identify. Faded wall coverings peeled away from the stone beneath. Cracks spread across the ceiling, and somewhere inside the walls, water dripped in a slow, steady rhythm.
Locke's heartbeat was louder. It battered against your senses from behind the bathroom door. Fast, uneven and desperate.
You could hear the blood rushing through every vessel in his body. Could hear the hitch in his breathing whenever the floor creaked beneath your weight. Could hear the frantic muttering beneath his breath. Curses tangled with prayers, as though the Mother might suddenly concern herself with a male like him.
"Come on, Locke," you called, letting sweetness coat your voice. "I only want to talk."
Something scraped against the other side of the door. He had wedged something beneath the handle. A narrow cabinet, judging by the drag of wood against tile. Perhaps he believed the door would hold. He had forgotten what you were. Or perhaps he had heard enough rumors to know exactly what you were and simply had nowhere else to go.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "Y/N, I'm sorry, all right? Just—fuck. Please."
Sorry.
The word almost made you laugh.
He had not seemed sorry in the alleyway.
None of them had.
Not when they surrounded you. Not when Royce caught your wrists and held them down. Not when you screamed at the male who was meant to become your husband and watched amusement curl across his face instead of horror. Locke had stood close enough that you remembered the smell of wine on his breath. He had watched. Helped. Laughed when one of the others told you to stop struggling.
Now his voice cracked around apologies.
How curious that remorse always arrived after consequence.
You approached the bathroom door slowly, allowing each step to sound. Locke stopped breathing. You raised your hand and knocked three times. A polite little rhythm.
"Let me in, Locke." The silence on the other side trembled with him.
"Please," he whispered.
His heartbeat stumbled.
You tilted your head, listening.
He was pressed low to the floor now. His clothing dragged softly against the tile as he shifted farther from the door, though there was nowhere for him to go. The bathroom possessed no window. No second entrance. Only a ceramic tub, a washbasin, and the narrow space beside the toilet where he had apparently decided to fold himself into something small enough to escape your notice.
Pity.
You had hoped he might provide more entertainment.
The others had at least attempted to preserve their pride. One spat at you. Another reached for a blade with such confidence that you let him draw it, just to see the expression on his face when the metal snapped between your fingers.
Locke was already broken.
You wondered how long you could leave him there. How long before fear emptied his bladder. How long before he turned whatever weapon he had managed to find on himself, preferring death by his own hand to whatever he imagined you intended.
Your hunger stirred at the thought of his blood. The thought disgusted you, but it also thrilled something in you that had not existed before. You raised your hand once more, then stopped.
No.
Enough.
"Very well," you said.
You stepped away from the door, moved farther down the hall, and then waited. Locke remained silent for several seconds. His heart continued pounding hard enough that it seemed impossible his ribs could contain it. Slowly, however, the rhythm changed.
Hope.
A pathetic, cautious easing.
He thought you had left.
You allowed him exactly long enough to believe it.
Then you moved.
The hallway vanished around you. One instant, you stood near the sitting room. The next, your palm struck the bathroom door. The wood exploded inward. It slammed into the wall with a deafening crack, splintering around the lock. The cabinet wedged beneath the handle toppled sideways, scattering bottles and folded linens across the tile.
Locke screamed.
He had squeezed himself into the narrow gap between the toilet and the tub, knees drawn up, one hand gripping a short knife so tightly that his knuckles had gone pale. For one absurd moment, you simply looked at him. This male had helped destroy your life.
This?
This trembling thing pressed against dirty tile?
"You should see yourself," you murmured.
"Stay back!" He brandished the knife.
The blade shook so violently that light flashed along it.
You stepped into the bathroom.
Locke's voice climbed. "I said stay back!"
"You said many things that night." His face changed, recognition deepened into horror.
Good, you wanted him to remember. You wanted every detail to return at once. Your torn clothes, Royce's hands, your blood pooling on the street. You wanted him to understand that death had not saved him from you.
"I didn't—" Locke swallowed hard. "I didn't do what they did."
Your mouth curved.
There it was.
Not innocence.
Distinction.
He had spent the last month—perhaps longer—constructing a hierarchy of guilt inside his head. Measuring his hands against theirs. Convincing himself that watching was lesser. That holding you still was not the same as hurting you. That laughing did not count.
"You were there," you said.
"I tried to stop them." A lie.
His heartbeat betrayed him before the words finished leaving his mouth. You heard the tiny leap in its rhythm, the body's involuntary response to deceit. Your new senses were useful that way.
"No, you didn't."
"I told Royce it was enough."
"You told him to hurry." Locke's face drained of color.
You remembered his voice clearly. Had heard it in every silent hour since waking.
Hurry before someone comes.
As though the danger had been discovery.
Not what they were doing.
"You remember," you said softly.
He began crying.
Real tears. Hot and salt-scented, running freely down his face.
"I was drunk."
"So was Royce."
"I wasn't thinking."
"Neither was I, apparently, when I trusted any of you."
"I'll give you money." You stopped.
Locke saw it and mistook your stillness for interest.
"My father has accounts," he rushed on. "Gold, property, anything. I can leave the Hewn City. I'll go wherever you want. You'll never see me again."
"Money."
"Yes."
"You believe I came here for money."
"I don't know why you came!" Your hunger flared.
You crossed the remaining distance before he could react. Locke slashed upward, the knife striking your palm. The blade sank through skin and scraped bone. For half a second, both of you stared at it. Then the wound began to close around the metal.
Locke made a choking sound.
You wrapped your fingers around the blade and pulled it free. Dark blood coated the steel for only a moment before your skin sealed, leaving no trace but a thin smear across your palm.
His eyes widened as you bent the knife in half, the metal folding with a shriek. Then, you dropped it beside him. Locke screamed again and tried to scramble into the tub. His shoulder struck the ceramic edge. His heel slipped against the tile. You caught him by the front of his shirt and hauled him upright.
He weighed nothing, it was still difficult to understand. Fae males had once seemed solid to you. Strong. Dangerous. Now Locke's feet barely touched the floor as you held him against the wall.
"Be reasonable," he sobbed.
You stared at him.
The phrase was almost enough to make you lose control.
"Reasonable."
"I'm begging you."
"So did I." His mouth closed.
You leaned closer. He smelled like fear. Sweat, stale alcohol, and the sharp copper beneath his skin. The pulse in his throat beat frantically inches from your mouth, making your teeth ache.
You hated him for that too. Hated that even now, after everything, his body could command yours. That your hunger did not care whose blood ran beneath the skin. That some new, monstrous part of you heard his heartbeat and answered.
Locke saw where you were looking.
"No," he whispered.
You smiled, though it was not kind.
"Do you know what happened after you left me there?"
He shook his head violently.
"No? Royce never told you?"
"I haven't seen him." Another lie.
You tightened your grip.
The wall cracked behind him.
"Do not lie to me. I can sense it." His eyes darted over your face, searching for some remnant of the female he had known. Someone concerned with reputation, consequences, mercy. That female had died in that street.
"What happened to you?" he breathed. The question was quieter than his begging, almost awed.
Your expression went still.
"You did," you said. "You left me without a heartbeat, without sleep, without anything in the mirror I recognized."
Locke's breath caught.
"You and Royce and every male who stood there made this."
Your free hand closed around his jaw, forcing his face toward yours.
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not," you said.
Locke broke. He sobbed openly now, words collapsing into each other. Apologies, pleas. Fragments of prayers. For a moment, you let him. You listened to his heart beat. You imagined stopping it with your hand. It would be easy, everything was easy now. Too easy.
The first male had surprised you with how fragile he was. You expected resistance, something worthy of all the fear you had once carried. Instead, bones broke beneath your fingers. Flesh tore. Blood came hot and fast. You had fed from him without meaning to, only once.
Long enough to realize the healer and Amren had been right. Blood was not disgusting once it touched your tongue. That knowledge had nearly destroyed you more completely than Royce had. Afterward, you vomited despite having nothing in your body to expel. You clawed at your own throat until the skin healed beneath your nails.
Locke stared at you now, unaware that you had already decided how this would end before stepping into his apartment.
"Where is Royce?" The sobbing stopped.
Not entirely. His breath continued hitching, but something guarded entered his eyes.
Loyalty?
No.
Fear of a greater monster.
Interesting.
"I don't know." Your hand tightened around his jaw until bone creaked.
"Where is he?"
"He left."
"Where?"
"I swear, I don't know." His heart—
Fast, but steady beneath the answer.
Truth.
Partially.
"You saw him."
"Days ago."
"When?"
"Three nights ago."
"Where?"
"At the Obsidian Room."
Of course.
The private club had always been one of Royce's favorites. Expensive enough to keep out anyone he considered beneath him, discreet enough to conceal nearly any appetite.
"What did he say?"
Locke hesitated, so you drove him harder against the wall. The stone fractured behind him from the force.
"He knows," Locke gasped.
Your hand went still. "Knows what?"
"That you're alive." The bathroom became silent except for the drip inside the wall.
"How?"
"I don't know. Someone saw you." One of the others, perhaps. One of the males you allowed to run for three whole streets before catching him.
You had wondered whether he managed to send warning ahead. A mistake, or perhaps not. Fear would improve Royce's final days.
"What else?"
"He's hiding," Locke added desperately. "He left the city. He said he was going somewhere you couldn't reach him."
"Where?"
"I don't know!" You searched his face, listening to the panicked rhythm in his chest.
Truth again.
Useless.
Locke saw your disappointment and rushed to fill it.
"He has people watching the entrances. He thinks you'll return through the main passages. He knows you're killing us."
You released his jaw and lowered him until his feet touched the tile. Locke sagged against the wall. Hope had appeared in his expression again. You watched it bloom. He thought information had purchased his life. Perhaps mercy had always been this cruel, letting someone see the door before closing it forever.
"Thank you," you said.
His face crumpled with relief.
"Y/N, I swear, I'll leave. You'll never—"
You struck him. His body slammed into the wall and dropped to the floor. He gasped, one hand flying to his ribs. You crouched before him.
"Do you remember what you said when I asked you to help me?" Locke shook his head.
You believed him. It had most likely been a forgettable sentence to him. For you, it had repeated for a month.
"You told me I was making it worse," you said.
His eyes squeezed shut.
You caught his chin and forced him to look at you.
"So I stopped asking."
"Please."
"And now you should too." Your hand closed around his throat.
Locke clawed at your wrist until his nails broke against your skin. You watched his face change as the air vanished. Watched the blood vessels darken beneath his skin. Watched terror strip away every polished mannerism and every inherited arrogance until only animal panic remained.
You could have ended it quickly, but you had decided not to. You held him exactly long enough for him to understand helplessness. Long enough for his body to betray him. Long enough for the world to narrow to pain, fear, and the knowledge that no one was coming.
Then you loosened your grip.
Locke dragged in a ragged breath. You allowed him one before your teeth sank into his throat. The blood was hot. The first taste flooded your mouth with life that was not yours. Locke convulsed beneath you, his hands striking weakly at your shoulders. You nearly recoiled. Nearly tore yourself away in disgust.
Then memory rose.
His laughter, his voice urging Royce to hurry. His hand around your ankle when you tried to crawl. So you drank. Locke weakened rapidly. His blows became shoves, then trembling touches, then nothing at all. The frantic beat beneath your mouth slowed.
Until finally, silence.
You lifted your head. For several seconds, you remained crouched over him, listening to the absence inside his body. No heartbeat, no prayer. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and looked down at the corpse.
You expected triumph, perhaps peace. Instead, there was only the same hollow ache that had followed the others. Revenge did not return anything. It did not warm your skin or restart your heart. It did not erase the alleyway. It did not transform you back into the female who walked into those streets trusting the male beside her.
But Locke would never laugh again.
That was enough for tonight.
You rose and stepped over his body. In the sitting room, you paused beside the cracked mirror hanging near the door. A stranger stared back. Too still, too flawless. Dark-eyed and bloodstained. For once, you did not look away.
One remained.
Royce knew you were coming.
Good.
You wanted him listening to every sound outside his door, wondering whether it belonged to you. You wanted him afraid of shadows, footsteps, strangers. You wanted him to feel your presence before he ever saw your face.
Let him run.
You had spent a month learning what you were capable of. He would spend what remained of his life learning the same.
