Razors & Ruin (Rare Horrors #1)

Chapter 36

36

Nellie

T he air is stifling, thick with the tang of raw meat and the iron scent of blood. My neck still hurts, and my breathing is a painful rasp, but I am alive.

Outside, the hubbub has been growing steadily, but as opening time comes and goes, it reaches a crescendo.

The starving masses can see the bloody pies through the shop window—the place is set up and ready for a solid few hours’ trade—but with me locked away and Mr. T God knows where, there’s nothing to be done.

I could yell for help. Someone would undoubtedly hear me; the bakehouse is not soundproof by any means. But to be freed is to guarantee my world will unravel, and as of now, there’s a chance things may work out.

Sweeney Todd, who lay waste to so many, could not steal my fragile life. It fluttered beneath his palm like a wounded butterfly, and he retreated, chastened by what he almost did.

He loves me. It’s raw and broken but authentic, unlike his love for Veronica. That slack, useless limerence was nothing compared to the inferno he and I have created between us.

Poor, foolish woman.

She had the man he used to be, but she never knew him like I do. What they had was weak; she probably fluttered her eyelashes and whispered sweet little words about how much she adored him, but love like that is hollow, empty.

It’s no wonder it all went up in flames. She could never have stoked the fire, never set him ablaze the way I can.

He was wasted on her.

The room feels smaller as unknown time drags on, the heat from the ovens making my skin prickle with sweat.

I stretch my legs out, feeling the ache in my joints, and the staleness of the air clings to me, mingling with the scent of the pies above.

But I won’t speak up. My throat feels like it’s wrapped in nettles, but I will not yield. I’ll sit down here in my own filth until I die, if that’s how it goes, and never raise my voice in supplication.

He will come back.

I see now what I didn’t before. The Fates are closing in, shutting off side roads, and keeping us moving forward.

Whatever Sweeney finds at the Sommers’ place, he was meant to find it, and I will bear the consequences if he returns. When he returns.

I waited for him before and can do so again. He will not let me down, not when he had his chance to dismiss me from this life and chose to keep me.

That kind of possessiveness brings a girl like me to her knees. While I’m down there, I’d beg for my life or suck his cock as he prefers, knowing he’d get a thrill from either.

Veronica never stirred that kind of passion in him. He spoke about her like a fragile thing to be held and cherished, but there was no fire in his words, no lust, no real possession. She was always a step removed, a notion of love more than love itself, as though he mourned something that never existed.

What Sweeney feels for me is brutally tangible. When we’re tangled up in violence and lust, he’s all in, focused, his blood powering through his veins. Isn’t that the truest proof of love?

Passion is our language, but not in the way the poets espouse. It’s a dark, messy, all-encompassing obsession. The only way he knows how to love, and the only love that could ever be enough for me.

Sweeney knows I’m his perfect match. I see it when he looks at me, when his hands grip my throat, his nails dig into my flesh, and his breath is hot against my skin.

He doesn’t want someone to soften him. He wants someone to revel in his madness, stoke it, and give it wings.

It’s me he can’t quit. He may love the idea of Johanna, but not enough to spare her the horror of him; if he cared as much as he believed, he’d have left her buried in the past.

Veronica never wanted the monster. She wanted the man—Currer—to be something softer, more tame. But you can’t tame a wolf. You can only run with him, howl at the moon by his side.

And I did. I craved the creature, fed it, nurtured it, helped it grow. I saw the snarling jaws and ran straight into them, desperate to feel the bite.

And that’s why I’m still here.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but when I wake from a painful doze, the street outside is silent.

I sit up, wincing; my back aches, the cold floor numbing my the flesh of my hip, and I swallow, the tightness in my throat searing.

Through the haze, I’d swear I heard the dull thud of footsteps passing by. Maybe someone even knocked at the door upstairs—twice, maybe three times—but I didn’t trouble myself to stir.

Let them think I’m dead. Let them wonder. Only one man knows I’m here, and he’ll come when the time is right.

If there was a scrap of human mercy left in Sweeney’s black heart, he’d have spared me—not by letting me live, but by letting me die. He could have ended my existence on Earth and sent me spiraling into oblivion, free and unfettered, but no.

He needs me too much, and he will prove it when this wild goose chase is over.

I am his monument, ruin, and empire all rolled into one.

We are like a poem after all: Ozymandias. The proud king’s statue stood over a vast desert, a testament to his power and might.

But all around him, there was nothing. No empire left to rule, no followers, no grand kingdom—just broken pieces of stone, an echo of his former glory.

Sweeney Todd, the king of nothing, and me, his queen.

Even when we’re dead and gone, they’ll talk about us.

About how we ruled the streets of London from the shadows, how no one was safe from the barber and the butcher. Maybe they’ll even talk about this basement, how I waited for him in the dark because I knew he would return to me.

Let the Fates close in. Let them tighten their grip and pull us toward the outcome we were destined for all along.

It doesn’t matter what he finds at Sommers’ place, nor do I care if Johanna walks through that door.

I will remain in this godforsaken basement prison. If this is my tomb, I’ll take it. Better to rot here, among the blood and bones, than be alive and anywhere else without him .

Even in death, I’d linger—my essence would seep into the stone, into the very air he breathes, where I’d cling to his lungs like a parasite. He’d never be rid of me.

I will never let him go. Never.

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.