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Women who would have enough righteous rage to want someone to do something about the man who didn’t serve nearly enough time, who would almost certainly re-offend. Because that was what shitheads like him did. There was no fixing that kind of fucked in the head.
Like a rabid dog, some animals just needed to be put down.
I understood that.
What I didn’t understand was why the fuck I ended up with a poisoned blade in my thigh, choking down activated charcoal and fending off hallucinations at Dr. Price’s place all night.
You wanted to take out a shithead, that was fine. But you made sure there was no collateral damage.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting.
I guess, given her seclusion from the rest of the world and gardening hobby, I’d imagined some old crone, some bitter lady with her disdain from humankind and a love of, cats. Or, judging by all the feeders and houses… birds.
But the reality?
Fuck.
Nothing like I imagined.
Not old.
Relatively young.
Fucking drop dead gorgeous too.
Tall, a little willowy, with milky skin, freckles, and a mass of curly red hair that she had pulled back with some sort of ribbon because, judging by the overalls and dark blue apron covered in some off-white powder, she’d been doing some sort of craft or some shit like that.
In fact, there was a smear of the same material over her cheekbone. And covering her hands, despite the rag she’d been wiping them off on.
“Fuck,” she hissed, trying to grab the door and slam it in my face.
I snapped out of it just in time to press my hand into it, keeping it open.
“We need to talk,” I said, watching as her gaze darted around, eyes wide, panicked, even.
If I hadn’t been watching so closely, I would have missed the movement, so slight and quick.
As it was, I saw the knife appear.
And I knew what was on that blade.
I wasn’t sure I’d survive another dose of that shit. Not so soon anyway.
Pushing off the doorframe, I grabbed that wrist just as she was about to raise it to strike.
My other hand shot out, grabbing the other wrist as my body moved inward, then slamming both arms up over her head against the wall.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, and I meant those words.
It didn’t matter how dark my heart was, how twisted my soul, how warped my psyche. I didn’t fuck with women.
I mean, I guess, if one was shooting at me and my only chance was to shoot back, I’d have to put some value in my own life. But I’d aim for a leg or something.
I wasn’t in the business of killing women.
Not even the ones who might want to kill me.
“Says the trespassing man pinning me to the wall in my own home,” she spat back. She didn’t need the blade. Venom was slipping from her tongue.
“I wouldn’t need to be here if you hadn’t tried to kill me.”
“Kill you,” she scoffed. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
“What? Like Kyle Carston?” he shot back.
“He would be dead too, if you didn’t need to play the hero, meddling in shit that doesn’t involve you,” she said, jerking her chin upward, refusing to be scared, even though, objectively, she had every right to be.
“Didn’t realize what a fuck he was until after I helped save him,” I admitted, giving her wrist a hard shake, knocking the knife loose, and stepping on the blade once it hit the floor.
“Really? You didn’t see the way he was refusing to take no for an answer at the bar?”
“Fuckheads come in varying degrees of bad. Plenty of pushy guys don’t become rapists and domestic abusers, just had one too many and watched too many of those pick-up artists channels on YouTube.”
“Fine. So you just thought you were being a Good Samaritan. You still fucked up my plan.”
“To kill Kyle Carston,” I clarified.
“Animals with rabies need to be put down,” she said, shrugging.
“On that, you and I agree,” I said, letting her wrists go and moving back a step, making sure the knife was still under my shoe. “If you go for something else, I’m going to have to bind your wrists while we talk,” I warned.
“Talk about what?” she asked, eyeing me as she slid along the wall until she was out of arm’s reach.
“You,” I said, shrugging.
“What about me?”
“About how a poisoner has been living in Shady Valley for, what, years, killing men, and no one knows about you?”
“I don’t live in Shady Valley,” she clarified. “And I make it a point not to be seen or known about.”
“Hence the wig,” I said, looking at her red hair. Natural, judging by her brows and lashes.
“Yeah. And the fact that I avoid town like the plague,” she agreed, backing into the kitchen, keeping her gaze on me, but likely moving closer to weapons.
