Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I leaned in and kissed her forehead.
“That’s better. You know all of this goes so much easier for you when you’re a good girl. Don’t make me remind you what happens when you’re not,” I warned as I released her and turned to walk deeper into the apartment.
Kicking aside a pile of dirty laundry and ignoring the overflowing garbage, I splashed vodka into a relatively clean mug and handed it to her. “Drink.”
I then topped off my own and leaned against the laminate counter. “Tell me all the details.”
She stared into her mug for a moment before setting it aside and crossing her arms over her middle. “I put the poison in the brandy. He drank it. I waited until he slumped over. And that was it.”
I chuckled, the taste of victory sweet on my tongue. “Finally, you do something right.”
She said nothing, but color still bloomed on her cheeks. The flush looked good on her. Made her look human. Breakable.
“Pick up your drink so we can toast and celebrate.”
She stretched out her arm but hesitated before picking up the mug. She glanced down at the liquid in her cup, back at me, and back to her mug. I could practically hear the wheels squeak from disuse as they turned in her head. “What’s the matter, darling? Don’t you trust me?”
Her wide eyes stared at me, unblinking. Finally, she gave a sharp shake of her head and forced a smile. “Of course I do, darling.”
Good girl.
Her hand trembled around the mug.
Lifting my arm, I raised my glass. “Shall we toast to your success?”
Skylar’s lips thinned before she gave me a stiff nod.
“In the words of the dramatist John Ford, ‘revenge proves its own executioner,’” I said, watching how my calculated words hit Skylar before taking a sip of my drink.
Her hand shook so violently she had to wrap a second hand around the mug before it dropped. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Say what? Oh! You’re right. Wrong quote. What’s a better one?” I tapped my finger against my lips, pretending it was an innocent mistake. “What is that one by Confucius? ‘If seeking revenge, dig two graves, one for yourself’?”
She gasped.
I held up my hand. “Wait. Wait. No, that’s not it.”
She slammed the mug down. “Stop it.”
When I was younger, I liked to torment the hunting dogs by tying pieces of raw meat to their throats and watching them fight until they were covered in blood.
This was more fun.
It only took two steps to cut off her direct path to the door; another two, and I was in front of her.
She looked up at me, spine locked, but the whites of her eyes gave her away.
She took two steps backward, but I was too quick.
I struck out, my fingers twisting into her hair at the base of her scalp. “I warned you about talking back to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
My breath brushed against her as my other hand grazed her cheek. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
She rose on her toes to try and ease my grip as her palms pressed against my chest. “Please, Jameson. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I loved it when she begged.
I reached for the mug and lifted it to her lips. “Drink.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Please…don’t make me.”
I pressed the rim of the mug against her cheek, pushing the porcelain against her flesh. “Pierce is not dead.”
Her fingernails clawed against my chest as she pushed backward. “What are you talking about?”
“The drug will put him in a coma, not kill him.”
Her body jerked as her lower lip trembled. “But you told me…”
“I know.”
“You let me believe I…”
I stared at those perfect red lips and wanted to smear the lipstick across her cheek. “Did you for a moment think I would trust a backstabbing little whore like you with my real plans?”
“You bastard.”
I rolled the mug over her lips until the porcelain clinked against her teeth. With a yank on her hair, I wrenched her head back as I tipped the mug. Liquid dribbled over her lips as she coughed and sputtered. “Drink.”
“No!”
At her exclamation, I tilted the mug and poured the contents down her throat.
She broke free and doubled over, retching.
I turned away and poured myself more vodka. Leaning a hip against the counter, I regarded her with the detached interest of a spider watching a fly struggle for its life within the sticky confines of its web.
She crashed to the floor, grabbing at her throat. Coughing and crying. “You bastard! You bastard!”
I strode over to her prone form and pulled her hair, forcing her to arch her back and face me. I tapped her forehead with the tip of my finger. “Stupid whore. I’m not a bastard. That is what this is all about.”
I released her hair and stood over her, legs wide. “Get up.”