My Vampire Beloved Husband
Chapter 38: Special Treatment

Chapter 38: Special Treatment

A single day had passed, and Naomi still hadn’t woken up.

Zylan sat motionless in a chair by the bed, his legs crossed, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His half-shot eyes remained fixed on the half-blood sprawled across the cold floor, whose body convulsed with the aftershocks of agony. There was a chill in Zylan’s gaze, a darkness that ran deep, yet it was mixed with a twisted, sinister satisfaction. The man before him had dared to make the fatal mistake of touching something precious—something that was his.

A small, eerie smile crept onto Zylan’s face, revealing a sliver of the satisfaction he took in the man’s suffering. Every shiver, every whimper, every inch of pain etched into the half-blood’s face was a reminder of what happened when someone overstepped their boundaries with what belonged to him.

Zylan took a slow drag from his cigarette, savoring each wisp of smoke as it coiled into the tense, suffocating air of the room. The half-blood’s body writhed on the floor, each movement jerky, almost involuntary, as if every nerve ending was ignited with raw, burning pain. Zylan watched, exhaling the smoke leisurely, his gaze unwavering, as though the cigarette offered the only comfort in an atmosphere thick with dread.

Extinguishing the cigarette with a precise flick, Zylan rose with slow, deliberate movements, his presence towering over the broken figure on the floor. He walked toward him, steps calculated and purposeful, each one echoing ominously in the silent room. Bending down, he brought the still-burning tip of the cigarette to the half-blood’s face, pressing it just under his nostrils. The half-blood hissed as the smoldering heat touched his skin, a guttural noise born of pain and terror. He jerked, but the strength to move, to pull away, was long gone. Instead, he could only cough—a raspy, agonized sound that barely escaped his lips, breaking down into pitiful groans.

Zylan’s hand shot out, his fingers sharp like claws, slashing across the half-blood’s face. The man let out a broken whimper as Zylan’s nails sliced into his cheek, marking him with five bloody imprints that would be his final, agonizing testament. Crimson blood trickled down the man’s face, mingling with the grime and dirt of the floor, creating a macabre blend that seemed to fuel Zylan’s smirk.

The silence was broken by Zylan’s voice, smooth but chilling, laced with a malice that felt colder than the sharpest steel. "How did her blood taste?"

His tone was low, almost a whisper, yet it dripped with venomous intent. He didn’t blink, didn’t waver as he stared down at the half-blood, relishing in the sight of the man’s trembling, the fear evident in every labored breath he took.

The half-blood could barely open his mouth. Words felt like sharp rocks clawing up his throat, but he managed to rasp out, "I... I never touched her...blood." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the terror was clear.

In truth, he hadn’t tasted Naomi’s blood; he hadn’t even come close before Zylan had unleashed his wrath. The scent alone, that intoxicating, overwhelming scent, had been enough to drive him to madness, enough to make him reckless. He’d forgotten his place, dared to imagine for a fleeting moment that he could approach her, but now... now he wished he had never even come close.

If only he had known—if only he had realized who she belonged to—he would never have dared to stand within a hundred feet of her. His breath hitched, chest heaving with fear as he realized the extent of his folly. Now, with Zylan’s cold, unwavering eyes upon him, he understood that his life was no longer his own. It was only a matter of time before Zylan decided how he would end it.

The half-blood’s body trembled uncontrollably, but he managed, through shallow, desperate breaths, to force out a plea. "Please... please kill me."

The words hung in the air, fragile, trembling, barely a whisper. But Zylan only laughed—a sound that echoed off the walls, filling the room with an unsettling, bone-chilling resonance. His laugh wasn’t meant to lighten the mood. It wasn’t even a sound of amusement. It was dark, hollow, the kind of laugh that spoke of a deep, malevolent pleasure, a joy taken in the suffering of another. The half-blood flinched as the laugh reached his ears, his body curling as if the sound itself held the power to shatter what little strength remained in him.

Zylan leaned in close, his gaze never leaving the man’s face. His voice was a low, venomous whisper. "You’re lucky, you know. You’re in for something... special."

His smile widened, a slow, sinister grin that revealed just how much he relished in this twisted torment. "This is my special torture center."

He laughed again, softer this time, the sound trailing into a hollow echo that left an eerie silence in its wake.

"This is my special treatment," he continued, his tone casual, almost as if he were talking about something as mundane as the weather. He leaned even closer, his gaze sharp, intense, piercing. "But if you still don’t want to enlighten me on how her blood tastes..." he trailed off, his voice dripping with contempt.

The half-blood’s breath quickened, the silence between them heavy, suffocating. Zylan’s gaze held him captive, his eyes glinting with malice, a dangerous spark that promised pain far beyond what he had already endured. The man knew he was as good as dead, and so did Zylan. But Zylan wasn’t done. No, the pain was only beginning, and he was going to make sure that every moment counted.

Zylan’s smile grew colder, sharper, and his voice dropped to an icy whisper. "I thought I wouldn’t need to use my special inn, but it seems fate had other plans."

With practiced silence, Zylan rose, his movements fluid and controlled. He moved to the table lined with knives, his fingers tracing over the gleaming steel with a gentle touch, as though caressing something precious. His hand paused, selecting the smallest blade, a wickedly sharp knife that gleamed under the dim light. He held it, studying it briefly, then began tossing it into the air, catching it with practiced precision.

Each toss grew faster, his hand moving with effortless skill, until he flung it with a single, fluid motion. The knife sliced through the air, embedding itself with a sickening thud into the half-blood’s shoulder. The man’s body jerked, but he made no sound. The pain was beyond anything he could express, a silent scream that tore through him, robbing him of even the ability to make a sound.

Zylan picked up another knife, his movements controlled, almost detached, as though he were merely engaging in a pastime. His gaze never wavered, never softened. He threw the second knife, this time embedding it into the man’s other shoulder. The half-blood was too drained to scream, too consumed by agony to even flinch. His breaths came in short, gasping rasps, each one sounding like it could be his last.

Zylan’s voice filled the silence, his tone darkly amused. "How about we create shapes?" He tilted his head, studying the half-blood with a twisted curiosity. "Let’s start with a square."

He selected another knife, his hand moving smoothly as he threw it, the blade sinking into one side of the half-blood’s abdomen. Another knife quickly followed, embedding itself into the opposite side. Zylan laughed, a sound devoid of warmth, colder than ice, as though he were savoring every moment of this little game.

The half-blood’s body was wracked with pain, but his voice had long since left him. He could only tremble, helpless and broken, as Zylan continued his dark work.

Just as Zylan reached for another knife, a soft knock echoed from the wooden door, cutting through the tension like a blade. His gaze shifted, darkening instantly. No one was meant to disturb him during his "special treatment"—unless there was an emergency. Even then, Zylan didn’t appreciate interruptions.

Silence fell, tense and expectant, before the door creaked open. One of his men hesitantly stepped inside, his eyes wide, as if he were fully aware of the consequences of interrupting Zylan at such a moment.

"Mr. Zylan... she’s awake. Your wife is awake."

Zylan stilled, the intensity in his gaze softening—just slightly, a mere flicker, but enough to show that the words had reached him. A faint smile tugged at his lips, the cold malice in his eyes melting into something almost... warm.

He turned slowly to his guard before turning to the half blood his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "We have good news and bad news."

He stepped forward, his smile widening, almost as if he were genuinely pleased. "The good news is... my wife is awake." His gaze flicked to the half-blood, who lay on the floor, barely conscious, his body a ruin of wounds and pain. He seemed as though he wanted to beg for mercy, though he no longer had the strength.

"And the bad news?" Zylan’s smile turned ice-cold as he moved swiftly, snapping the half-blood’s neck with a single, calculated motion. The body crumpled lifelessly to the floor, limbs collapsing like a broken marionette.

Turning to his guard, Zylan wiped a faint spot of blood from his hand with almost casual disdain. "Clean this up. I may need this room... for more ’treatments’ soon." Without another word, he stepped through the doorway, leaving his guard frozen in stunned silence as the door clicked shut behind him.