Page 2 of His Pretty Little Queen

She slashes at me with the object.

Roaring through my head, my brain barks, 'It's her or them.' The words drilled into me since before I could understand the weight of them."You're above them all."

"You protect your own."

"This is your legacy."

"Your birthright."

The chanting continues while my heart races with every bullshit emotion I wish didn't dwell inside me. Didn’t feed off the last slithers of my soul. My innocence.

This is the beginning of my legacy. Cold. Controlled. Unemotional. The catalyst that will keep me locked and theirs —theCosa Nostra’s—forever.

"Hurry up!"

Sweat slides down my face.

No. Not sweat.

Fucking tears.

I lose sight as they flood my vision, the room quickly blurring, just as something sharp drags along my collarbone. She got me. The seeping of blood wets my shoulder, reminding me how little time we have. The blood will drop to the sheets. I'll leave evidence—

I lunge forward into her face, so close now I can smell her shampoo and the sheets. So close I can hear her dying whimpers. So close I can feel the heat from her body.

She's alive.

I apply all my weight.

My heart breaks.

Hers slows.

Her body dwindles in strength. Careless arms flop and flail with the remnants of her young life. I hear a groan rumble in my throat as my eyes refuse to stop crying like a bitch. Just like my hands refuse to allow her to breathe. Everything bubbling to the surface. Rage. Loyalty. Pain. Guilt.

Then she is still.

And I'm so close.

No more whimpering.

She isn't alive.

Panic surges through me, but I don't have time for it. Jumping to my feet, I follow Dustin from the hospital room, wiping at my cheeks and forcing myself to feign a casual manner while the new echoing of her pulse runs a straight line across the monitor. A droning tone that follows us down the hallway and around the corner.

The sound is her death song.

And mine too.

* * *

Don't feel.

After I remove my soiled shirt, I stand bare-chested in the bathroom of my family home and take a white-knuckled grip on the stone vanity.

I stare at the square ceramic sink, counting the drops of blood dripping from the thick, jagged wound in my collarbone.

One.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com