Mated to the Mad Lord-Chapter 294: The Bloody head

The scent was subtle, yet unmistakable.

Coppery. Thick. Lingering in the air like an invisible hand closing around his throat.

Blood.

Vazer moved toward it as if drawn by an unseen force, his body reacting before his mind could process the horror awaiting him. The smell was rich with something beyond mere violence—this wasn’t fresh blood from a simple wound. This was deep, old, soaked into the very fibers of the air itself.

Vazer’s steps faltered as he drew closer, the metallic tang of blood thick in his nostrils. The scent wasn’t fresh—it had settled into the very air, soaked into the walls, the furniture, the very bones of this wretched room.

His gaze locked onto the severed head sitting on the windowsill.

It wasn’t sloppily discarded. It had been placed there. Positioned with cruel precision, as if meant to be a spectacle, a trophy.

The skin, once taut with life, was now an unnatural shade—pale where the blood had drained, dark where it had pooled. The jagged cut at the base of the neck was rough, uneven, like someone had hacked at it rather than making a clean slice. Strips of torn muscle and veins hung limply, dried at the edges, blackened as if the blood had been left to congeal.

But it was the eyes that sent something cold slithering through his chest.

Wide. Staring.

Unflinching.

The way they were fixed in place made it seem as if the head had been frozen in its final moments—not in terror, but in an eerie, knowing stillness. Like it had seen something before death came. Something it had accepted.

Vazer felt like the floor beneath him had disappeared.

For a few seconds, his body refused to respond. His fingers twitched, but his legs felt locked, his breath coming in uneven, ragged bursts. His own heartbeat roared in his ears, but it felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

Then the first spark of rage ignited.

His fists clenched—so tightly that the tendons in his hands ached, his nails pressing into his palms hard enough to draw blood. A sharp, sickening creak echoed from his knuckles, but he didn’t feel the pain.

A tremor passed through him, his muscles tensing, every fiber in his being demanding that he move, that he strike, that he kill.

Vazer’s breathing grew heavier. Not from fear. Not even from grief.

But from the overwhelming, suffocating rage clawing its way up his throat like bile.

His vision blurred at the edges, a crimson haze creeping in, turning the world into nothing but shades of red and black.

Javi.

The name pulsed in his mind like a war drum.

Javi had done this.

Javi had placed this head here.

Javi had laughed as he did it.

Vazer could see it now—some twisted, grinning bastard, standing over the body, hacking at the neck, relishing every single stroke of the blade.

His jaw tightened, a violent shudder rolling through his body.

He had thought he was angry before. Thought he had known rage.

But this—this was something else.

It was a cold, merciless fury, the kind that stripped away reason and left only intent.

He wanted to rip Javi apart. Tear the flesh from his bones. Crush his skull in his bare hands and listen to the wet crunch of bone and brain collapsing under his grip.

His fingers twitched again, itching for a throat to close around.

But still, he forced himself to move carefully.

Slowly, deliberately, he took another step toward the severed head.

His pulse thundered, his body tense enough to snap, but he didn’t lash out—not yet.

His rage would be served cold.

He would find Javi.

And what he would do to him...

...would make this look merciful.

Vazer took another step closer.

The head wasn’t just a lifeless remnant of a body—it was alive.

The eyes weren’t merely frozen in pain; they saw him. A deep, soul-wrenching suffering echoed within them, an awareness buried beneath the agony. It wasn’t a mindless, vacant stare. It was conscious.

Vazer swallowed, his throat tightening as he knelt before it.

Blood matted the strands of hair, clumping them together in stiff knots. The skin was clammy and pale, streaked with lines of dried crimson. The lips, slightly parted, were stained dark where the blood had trickled down. A tremor passed through the flesh, so faint that most wouldn’t notice—but Vazer did.

She was still there.

His sister.

His fingers trembled as he reached out, hesitating for just a moment before finally stroking the head gently. His palm came away slick, warmth meeting his skin, a sickening contrast to the cold rage burning in his chest.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, trying to suppress the violent shudder that threatened to take over his body.

"I’ll be back," he whispered.

The words weren’t for himself. They weren’t even a promise. They were a vow, one that rumbled from the depths of his very being.

But he couldn’t leave her here.

And he couldn’t carry her in the open—not with how heavily she was still bleeding.

Gritting his teeth, Vazer’s eyes swept the room. His gaze landed on a large bag tucked into the corner—a heavy-duty storage sack, likely used for transporting valuables or weapons. Without a second thought, he grabbed it and opened it wide.

He moved with slow precision, lifting the head carefully. Blood dripped in thick, sluggish drops, splattering against his sleeve, soaking into his clothes.

His breathing came out in rough, controlled bursts as he placed the head inside, tightening the sack with a sharp tug.

The weight of it was heavier than it should have been.

Or maybe it was just the weight of rage pressing down on him.

Cain better be keeping Javi occupied, Vazer thought grimly. He had no patience for interruptions. Not now. Not when his only focus was retrieving her body.

He stepped out of the office, the sack gripped tightly in one hand, the thick scent of blood clinging to him like a second skin.

But this time, there was something else in his grasp—a long, gleaming blade, freshly picked from Javi’s office. He had stashed it beneath his clothes, its weight a comforting promise of what was to come.

Vazer had barely taken a few steps toward the dungeons when a figure blocked his path.

A guard.

The man’s nose wrinkled immediately, his brows furrowing in disgust as he caught the scent of blood in the air. His gaze flickered down to the sack, then back up to Vazer.

"What the hell did you drink?" the guard asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

Vazer didn’t answer.

The anger inside him had reached a point of no return.

He moved before the guard could react.

In one fluid motion, his hand shot beneath his cloak, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the blade.

The whisper of steel slicing through air was the only warning.

The blade flashed upward, biting deep into the guard’s throat.

A wet, gurgling noise escaped him as blood bubbled from his lips, splattering across the floor in thick streaks. His hands clawed at the wound, eyes bulging in shock and horror, but Vazer didn’t stop. He twisted the blade, slicing deeper, severing muscle and sinew in one final, brutal motion.

The guard collapsed, his body hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud.

Vazer barely spared him a second glance.

He had become a distraction. frёeωebɳovel.com

And Vazer had no patience for distractions.

Tightening his grip on the sack, he stepped over the dying man, his boots leaving behind bloody imprints as he moved forward.

The only thing that mattered now was getting to the dungeons.

Getting to her.

And making sure that every single person who had a hand in this paid for it in blood.