Page 126 of Nemesis

Blood sprays my lips.

This is where the guilt should pour in. This is the part where I gasp out and beg for forgiveness. Where I fling my gun aside in horror.

But all I do is lick the salty substance from my lips.

That part of my mind flickers off entirely when I climb to my feet. No one has ever looked at me like they all are now. It’s a twitchy silence, split between rage and fear.

“Trust me,” I say. “You do not want an enemy like me.”

Fear is a beautiful thing, and I see it reflected throughout the room everywhere I look. I’m disappointed when my tongue flicks out, and my lips are clean. I want more of that salty taste. I want blood more than I want air. I want death.

“Hey!”

I flip around to Ben. My other cousins are stiff, blocking their mother from the violence.

“We need more men, Octavia. Not less! You can’t kill your way into domination!”

Domination is earned.

“Perhaps you would like to challenge me yourself?” I ask, facing Ben, Glock hanging at my side. That spotless fucking dress shirt. He stays clean, while I only get bloodier. “Maybe you’d like to spill my blood beside my father’s? Shame you didn’t even wait for it to cool⁠—”

“Enough,” Alex interrupts, pushing his son back. “This is not what he would have wanted. You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”

Ben’s gaze lowers in quiet deference to his father. Him, he respects. Him, he’ll listen to.

My lips pull in a skeptical frown as Alex turns to me.

“I will honor your claim, Octavia. As will everyone else in this room who still has a shred of loyalty pumping through their veins.”

No one contradicts him. It’s not agreement that causes the static silence to settle back over the room. More like a temporary rank has been reestablished. I wonder how long it will last.

Time blurs into one of those moments that stretches like a rubber band, building tension until the snap.

“How long will it take to prep the jet?” I ask, turning on my heel.

I don’t let myself think about the distance growing between my body and the empty shell lying on the carpet.

“What?” Alex gasps in bewilderment. “Where are we going?”

I don’t look back when I answer.

“New York.”

The bag jerks beneath my fist.

I give it a wide berth, waiting for it to swing back before striking again. I should be wearing the gloves to protect my fists for what’s to come. Vasiliy would tell me to wear my gloves.

We’re leaving for the airport as soon as the jet refuels. I should be packing, or planning, or scrubbing the blood from the carpets upstairs.

It’s difficult to remember the girl who balked at her first few kills. Especially when my only measure of calmness comes from replaying the sound of my bullets hitting true. I think about it again and again. Their widening eyes. Bodies crumbling to the floor.

I remember the way Paxton’s blood tasted.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

I fight the bag until sweat burns my eyes and air becomes scarce.