Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“I’ll get to that after Marguerite’s dead.”
“All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”
He walks toward the house, his movements calm and deliberate, the streetlight catching on the engraving of his signet ring as he flexes his fingers.
I roll my tense shoulders as I step onto the pavement, the cold seeping into my skin through the leather of my jacket.
We manage to open the door using the code Lucia gave us, and then we walk into the darkness, our steps silent, like the prime hunters we were raised to be.
Kane is covering my back as I go up the stairs, two steps at a time, then stop when we see dim light coming from the last bedroom to the right.
Someone else is here.
We share a look, then move in that direction.
A distinctive noise reaches our ears first.
The wet, rhythmic sound of a blade sinking into flesh.
It grows louder by the second.
Slash.
Slash.
Slash.
The gurgle of blood echoes in the air as I bang the door open, pointing my gun ahead.
The scent of thick, metallic blood is the first thing that hits me. It clings to the air, coats the walls, and seeps into the floorboards.
Someone beat us to Marguerite and is currently straddling her on the huge bed.
His shoulders hunch and straighten with each brutal thrust of the knife, the blade flashing before disappearing again, buried deep in what was once Marguerite Armstrong.
Her face is disfigured, and her once blonde hair is soaked in red.
It’s everywhere.
The blood.
The bed, the sheets, the floor, and even on the man who’s performing what looks like a creepy stabbing ritual, completely controlled and unbothered.
Through the bloody haze, Kane and I see him clearly.
Marcus.
The man who’s turned Marguerite into a canvas of slaughter.
He doesn’t stop stabbing her.
Not when we enter, not when the door groans under Kane’s push. Almost as if he’s disconnected from reality.
“The fuck are you doing here?” I growl, pure rage rippling into my tone because he took away my revenge.
For Violet.
For Preston.
This motherfucker confiscated my last string of vengeance.
Marcus’s head jerks up as if pulled from a trance, and for a split second, his expression is full of pure, raw bloodlust. His eyes are wide, dilated, a feverish glow sparking behind them, something wild and feral.
He looks no different than an animal after a kill. His mouth is slightly parted, breaths coming in uneven gasps.
His entire body is drenched in red.
It drips down his arms, is smeared across his face in rivulets, and his clothes are soaked through.
The blade gleams, slick and wet, his fingers gripping it so tight, the tendons in his wrist stand out, stark against the carnage staining his skin.
Then slowly—too slowly—he tilts his head, a grin cutting across his bloody face, marring his teeth in red. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”
His voice is hoarse, low, like he’s been whispering to himself between every stab.
The body beneath him is barely recognizable, a ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone, her chest a hollowed-out mess of rage and violence.
“Get the fuck out of here, Osborn.” Kane steps in front of me.
“Bring cleaners? Of course you did.” Marcus chuckles as he stumbles off the bed and loses his footing. “I’ll leave it to you, rich kids.”
I grab him by the collar. “You think you can ruin my fucking revenge and then leave?”
“That’s the plan, Callahan.” He’s speaking, but his gaze is lost somewhere I can’t see.
I breathe harshly. “I should maim you instead.”
Kane pulls me away. “Let him go.”
“But this motherfucker—”
Kane shakes his head. “Pres wouldn’t like it.”
I think I imagine it, but Marcus flinches when Kane says Preston’s name.
I didn’t know the bastard could flinch.
As I release him, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a candy, and throws it into his mouth as he walks out, swaying as if he’s drunk, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
“Why the fuck did you stop me, Kane?” I snap when he’s gone. “And what’s with Pres not liking it? He hated that motherfucker more than I did.”
“Maybe, but it was complicated.” Kane grabs one of the bloody candy wrappers that Marguerite’s body is surrounded with. “He killed her and the gunman because they took Preston from him. He made it personal. Too personal, actually. We all know, aside from dealing with his family, Marcus never makes anything personal. And you know what?”
“What?”
Kane smiles sadly, knowingly. “If the roles were reversed, I believe Pres would’ve done the same.”
When I walk into Violet’s place, it’s still.
Too still.
And I know part of it is because of the fucking emptiness gnawing at my insides.
I can’t get past the fact that Marguerite is gone, and so is my revenge.
And now, I have to crash back into the reality of grief.
Of accepting that my best fucking friend is gone, and no amount of killing can resurrect him.