Page 17 of His Last Will

One I learned a long time ago to eliminate.

Not that I would tell her. I know she cries every night. I stand here in the shadows of her room, waiting for her sobs to stop. The curtains cover most of me, except when there is a breeze from the open window. Truly, I think she would notice me if she could focus on anything other than him.

Brodie.

I would call him a bastard, but the truth is, I am the bastard.

If it were anyone else, I would say that this level of remorse is just for show. The screaming, the crying, the isolation. But I know her. I knew them. I mean, for fuck’s sake, they’ve been together since they were teenagers. Since we were teenagers.

Knowing Brodie Araneae meant you knew Ari Ashbourne. It was like there was this invisible string that held them together that only they could see. Revolting if you ask me.

Being tied down like that, expecting things from another person. Having them expect things of you. Flirting. I would rather carve Brodie’s name into my skin.

Listening for her breathing to even out, I lean against the wall. Ari usually exhausts herself between three and four in the morning, which, judging from the moon in the sky, should be any minute.

Watching others mourn my stepbrother has been interesting. Unsurprisingly, Brodie and I clashed from the very beginning. Our father set us on two different paths. Him, the leader, and me, his second. Or in other words, his fucking dog.

I thought I would feel differently when Brodie died. Something more toward elation or even some joy. Given the power he had, which succeeded to me, I always assumed I might even celebrate. Throwing a party seemed a little crass when a funeral was expected. But cracking open that nice bottle of bourbon he kept behind his desk and drinking it in his leather chair seemed like a good use of my time.

In truth, seeing my brother’s lifeless face, hearing his last gasp of breath in the back seat of the town car, made me feel empty. Vacant. Like something that belonged to me had vanished.

Shaking my head, I brush that thought off. No. Just no. I won’t think of him like that. Ever.

He is nothing but bone and dust at this point. Better to think of him that way.

Coming out from my spot behind her curtains, I walk toward the bed. Ari has finally drifted off into another fitful sleep. Permanent dark rings have formed around her eyes, and the ends of her hair are damp with sweat and probably some of her tears.

Looking down at her, I brush her soft brown hair off her face.

Ari Ashbourne.

She thinks that no one notices. But I do. I see everything. Watching from my shadows. Waiting. Like a pissed-off bystander in their love story. And it makes my blood boil. I will not have someone in my house mourn the loss of him anymore. It is time this ends.

Because the Araneae legacy is finally in my grasp, and I won’t let one woman destroy everything I plan to build.

Especially when that woman is meant to be my wife.

“Come, Bosco. It’s time to get to work,” I say as I reach my hand out to my spider. My purple pinktoe tarantula climbs onto my shoulder and perches there. It’s an advantageous spot for two reasons. The first being that it scares off the general public from getting too close. The second is that it makes me come off even more psychotic when torturing my victims. Blood splatter on my face, knife in hand, and a spider on my shoulder. It is most people’s version of the devil. Which benefits a reaper like me greatly.

Most people don’t understand that spiders only attack when threatened or provoked. People fear them at first sight, conditioned by parents screaming when they found one in the house or by horror stories about some laying eggs in their ears. It is a trained, instinctual fear. A fear that I thrive on and use to my advantage.

Entering my warehouse, I take a deep breath. Ahhh. Nothing is better than the perpetual smell of blood and tears in the air. The coppery scent mixes surprisingly well with the salty undertones.

The morgue is my space. It is essentially a warehouse for research and murder, broken into two parts. My side, the morgue, is literally that. An old morgue that was retrofitted to fit my needs. Because this death locker isn’t just for the dead. It also houses all the mortuary cabinets that hold my awaiting—and very alive—victims.

Or, as Ashton prefers to call them, his patients.

To be fair, Ashton did have patients. Everyone important who needed a doctor came to Ashton, which meant The Order also held all the most vital information of the wealthiest, most elite members of society—celebrities, politicians, mafia dons. He had their medical records at his fingertips. Which meant leverage and blackmail and even more power for The Order.

Ashton was a legend people only whispered about. Someone they wanted in their pocket and on their side. Because being on the wrong side of Ash was detrimental.

Just last week, he slipped a mafia don some lube to “enhance growth” when in reality, it was fucking paralytic lube. The don had roughed up some of the sex workers in the community, and Ashton took it upon himself to take care of the problem. Don Juan came to Ash looking for a cure for the limp-dick lube, and the man ended up with an enhanced potassium serum that induced a heart attack. So, the man died writhing on the floor of the warehouse, clutching his broken dick. Poetic, really.

The second half of the warehouse houses Ashton’s research and development office. Ash creates the formulas, which I test and collect the data for him.

Patients who end up here are hand-picked from a list of criminals, thieves, or threats to The Order. People we are going to dispose of anyway. They might as well go out doing something useful for us.

Plus, I live for the torture, and it allows me to let my inner reaper out to play.