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I looked at her costume. “Your mother?” I whispered.
I’d heard she was a ballerina back in the day.
He turned back around, guarded but trembling a little.
I tried to catch my breath. “Did Will have any part of that, Damon?”
He shook his head.
He stepped toward me, and I held my breath, closing my eyes and waiting for it.
But he didn’t touch me.
He just closed the distance and hovered, and I couldn’t move if I tried. My head swam.
“Not going to fight me again?” he murmured.
It took a moment, but I raised my eyes, meeting his. “It’s easier to pretend that we’re in control of everything that happens to us.” I repeated his words. “It’s almost peaceful. To just let it be.”
He stared at me and then… nodded. He touched my face, and I jerked away, but then he brought up his hand, showing me the blood he’d wiped off.
I touched my face, too, patting the scratch. Was that from Martin or the escape?
“Does Will know?” he asked, rubbing my blood between his fingers.
“No.”
He lifted his gaze to mine. “Because he’s the one pure, beautiful thing untainted by ugliness,” he repeated his same words from the shower. “And we love him for it.”
I remained still despite everything shattering inside and the ache in my throat from the cry I held back.
Turned out that maybe the Horsemen weren’t what I’d thought, and while money may pay off the consequences, it still didn’t prevent some kinds of pain.
He turned his head, looking at the body again. “She started fucking me when I was twelve,” he whispered. “After a while, you get tired of pretending that you’re in control of everything that happens to you.” He paused, turning to me again. “And you start being what happens to everyone else.”
Spinning back around, he walked over to his mother, crouched down next to her body as he faced me, and wrapped his hand around the front of her throat.
I watched as his fingers curled, tightening, and the whites of his knuckles flashed in the dark.
He lifted his eyes to mine, watching me as I watched him. My toes curled, my reflex to run, but…
I felt it. My hand, not his. My fingers hummed, slowly balling into fists, and I breathed heavy, feeling my heart pound and the bile rise up my throat, but…
God, I wanted to be him. I wanted to do it.
I liked this feeling.
I wanted to kill, and I squeezed my fists until they ached, but I didn’t move until she stopped jerking and gasping and shaking, one of her legs dipping over the side of the grave.
Damon held my eyes the whole time.
The part of me that always gave in to tears was gone. Tears solved nothing.
I didn’t know when I started toward him, but in a moment, I was next to the grave, holding out my foot and helping him push her into the hole. Her body hit the soil, dirt smearing her legs, feet, and arms as he grabbed the shovel. I dropped to my knees, hurriedly helping him push the earth on top of her with my hands.
We didn’t talk. I didn’t even think we really realized what was happening or what we were really doing, but it was too late now. Even if I turned him in for murder, I’d helped him dump the body. It was too late to panic.
And although I feared what I’d feel tomorrow in the light of day with a clearer head, I couldn’t push the dirt in fast enough tonight. I wanted her to fucking die.
