AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And there it is. The reason I hate myself more and more each day.
If only I was stronger, Alek would be dead, and none of this would be happening. But something, something I can’t explain, couldn’t allow that to happen. I don’t know why; I just know that Alek’s death feels wrong.
“Why are you here? You were supposed to be gone?” I can understand his confusion. However, I wanted to explain everything when we were finally away from this place. But I owe him an explanation.
“Things didn’t go as planned,” I confess, biting my lip. “Zoey, she…she was the one who blew up the house.”
Saint shakes his head, pained. “So it was all for nothing.”
“Don’t say that.”
He simply lowers his gaze.
“Why are you pushing me away?” I whisper, gently pressing my palm to his cheek. He rips out my heart when he shudders under my hand. Can’t he bear my touch? “I…I love you.”
I wish the circumstances were different, but I want him to know how I feel because I never got to say it back.
Saint slowly runs his tongue over his split bottom lip, measuring his words. I can understand why that is. “Well, don’t.”
Staggering backward, I allow the darkness to evade me because his admission has shattered me into a million pieces. Why is he pushing me away?
“I can’t stop,” I confess with nothing but sadness, wrapping my arms around me. “Even if I tried.” My confession has highlighted what a fucking idiot I am; to love someone who wishes you didn’t.
Saint’s shallow breaths echo the hopelessness, the invisible shackle which holds us down.
“You may have given up, but I haven’t,” I stubbornly cry.
Saint turns his cheek, pained.
With nothing left to say, I stand on tippy toes and continue working the lock. He may want me to go, but too bad, this isn’t his choice. I want to tell Saint about the bug, but I’ve run out of words. So I work in silence, but the silence speaks volumes.
When the metal budges, a small bubble of hope wells inside me, and I holler in joy, but that’s soon replaced with dread when I hear something which jumpstarts my panicky heart.
Saint’s head snaps to attention, peering up at the stairs. When he hears the frantic footsteps pound down the steps, his eyes widen.
“Hide!” he cries, begging I listen.
But he should know by now that I don’t do what I’m told.
With the scalpel in hand, I quietly run over to the staircase to hide in the shadows. Crouching low, I bide my time, and when I see one of Oscar’s men, it seems my time has finally come. He bounces down the last step, not appearing to notice the mess I’ve made or the fact one of Saint’s wrists is unbound.
He slurs something in Russian, hinting he’s drunk.
Saint gestures with his eyes that I stay put and not jab the scalpel into this asshole’s jugular, but it’s too late. Vengeance is a potent drug; I see that now.
He sways to the left, suddenly coming to a slanted stop as he turns his attention to the implements decorating the floor. Before he has a chance to act, I creep up behind him, masking my footsteps and detaching myself from what’s right and wrong. The only thing that matters is making this bastard pay.
Without hesitation and with retribution roaring through my veins, I raise my arm upward and stab him swiftly in the side of the throat. Hot, sticky blood coats my fingers before a gurgling sound fills the air. I pull out the scalpel and take a step back, unbelieving I feel no remorse because when the man turns around, clutching his throat with sheer terror in his eyes, I lunge forward and stab him again.
“?????, no!” Saint cries, but he doesn’t get to decide anymore.
The man drops to his knees, blood spraying from between his fingers thanks to the deep gash in his throat. He attempts to stop the bleeding, but it’s too late. He’s dying, thanks to my hand. And for the first time ever…I feel nothing.
He lunges for me with a bloodied hand, a final act of defense, but I take a casual step backward, watching him coldly as he bleeds out before my eyes. It doesn’t take long before he falls onto his stomach with a thud, his arm stretched out as he tries to reach for his murderer.
His chest wheezes as his lungs are starved of oxygen, and before long, the death rattle stills, announcing his death. The scalpel drops to the ground with a sharp crash. Hell has gained another demon.
Working on autopilot, I drop to a squat and rifle through his pockets. He’s still warm to the touch, a thought which suddenly turns my stomach. But I hold back my nausea because it’s done. I own this action because I feel no remorse.
