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Her face reddens with anger and she rushes into me, throwing the knife down and grabbing my throat with both hands, squeezing it tight. “What did you do? Where’s Michael?”
Her grip on my throat is bruising and I don’t even bother trying to respond knowing that any attempt to talk is only going to make it hurt more and waste what little oxygen I have left, so instead, I just smile, loving the way her eyes go wild with irritation.
She shakes me. “ANSWER ME. WHERE’S MICHAEL? WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM, YOU LITTLE BITCH?” Realizing that I’m not about to answer with her hands wrapped around my throat she releases me and scrambles for her knife.
I suck in a deep breath, hating that although she’s released me, I can still feel her fingers wrapped around my throat, bruising and squeezing, and instead of crying about it, I just smile up at her, knowing that no matter how I spin it from here, I’m fucked. The boys aren’t coming and she’s far too unhinged to see reason.
“Your little game is unravelling faster than my bullet tore through his brain.”
Fury ripples in her gaze and her breath comes in short, fast gasps that get louder and louder by the second. She’s only moments away from losing her shit, but I’m not nearly done. I’m only just getting started.
“You should have seen how quickly Dynasty voted for his death, how quickly his wife abandoned him, and how quickly he fell. You have no one to blame but yourself, Paris. You’re a joke. You’re just a jealous bitch who wished that she had what my mother had. Are you so pathetic that instead of making a name for yourself, you need to steal hers? I didn’t even get a chance to know her, but without question, I know that she’s twice the woman you always wanted to be and more. You’re nothing, and although I know you won’t leave this house without ending my life, just know that the boys will never stop hunting you. They will make you wish that you never even heard the name Elodie Ravenwood.”
Paris just stares at me, her eyes as wide as saucers and her short shallow breaths almost terrifying, and like a switch being flipped, she loses it.
Paris runs at me, her high-pitched battle cry deafening me as she races toward me with her knife. It slams down, impaling the chair right beside my thigh, her crazed, messed up head fucking with her aim. She yanks it out hard. “London Ravenwood was a bitch,” she squeals, attempting to stab me again, but as she comes down at me, I push off the ground and send the chair toppling to the side, crashing down with a hard thump.
The leg of the chair catches her right in the center of her chest and she screams out in pain, but I don’t dare miss my shot. I kick out as hard as I can, catching her in the chest again and sending her crashing back against my dresser.
The whole dresser rocks under her weight and she rights herself, but I don’t doubt that she’s in pain. The little knobs on the dresser would have slammed right into her back, and the shrieking squeal is proof of that—music to my ears.
Paris stares at me as though I’m just as crazy as she is, but in reality, I’m crazier. Only today, I’m doing a better job of concealing it, but if she keeps fucking with me and trying to hurt my people, then she’s going to see just how fucking crazy I can be. Consider me a selfless person because right now, I’m sharing the spotlight and allowing this bitch the chance to shine.
She makes her way toward me, and the determination in her eyes tells me that this is it. She won’t miss her next swing. She’s going to make it count, for herself, for Harding, and for her bullshit plan that died and crumbled the second I discovered who she was.
She wants to send me right to the deepest pits of hell to burn and rot with the likes of those I've sent before me. But I won’t allow it to happen, not yet. I’ve been building a list of enemies and one by one, I’ve been crossing them off my list and proving to the bastards around me that I’m not someone they want to fuck with, and soon enough, Paris Moustaff is going to learn that lesson the hard way.
Paris takes another step just as a low, ferocious growl comes from the doorway. “Get the fuck away from her.” While the tone is filled with rage, guilt, and a definite lethality, it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
Paris whips around to find Grayson looming toward her and the fury in his eyes even has my bones shaking with fear, though something isn’t right. With each step he takes, he wobbles. His feet don’t want to move and when they do, they don’t take him in a straight line—he zig zags.
