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I realize the palm I’ve got on his arm is shaking, and he glances down at it. I think he can sense the change in me, and I gulp. It’s now or never. I can’t come back from this. I chant Ruby’s name in my mind as I extract the knife. Bertrand shifts away, his hand comes up, his mouth opens to yell for someone, and I do it.
I don’t think I’ll forget the sound of the knife entering his throat for as long as I live, which probably won’t be too much longer if I don’t snap out of this trance I’m in. I’m staring at the blade as it jerks back and forth with his movement. Bertrand is clawing at me, his throat bobbing as he struggles to breathe, and he gets one hand wrapped around my neck before I get away.
Damn it.
I grab at his wrist, but for a man with a knife in his gurgling throat, he’s pretty strong, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh underneath my ears. It fucking hurts.
I watch in horror and maybe shock at the blood pooling in his mouth, slipping out of the corners of his lips as he strangles me, and I change tactics, reaching for my knife again. He’s not dying quickly enough.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I should have planned this better. I should have planned everything better.
Why did I think I could pull this off?
His arm reach is longer than mine and effectively keeps me from grasping the hilt. I kick out with my feet, barely registering the sound they make against the desk. Bertrand’s other hand comes up, swiping at his desk as he starts to stand. I can’t breathe, my air supply being cut off by his tightening grip, and I can feel my mind starting to go fuzzy. I lash out, trying to claw or maim him in some way.
I’m barely aware of the door to the office opening and then shutting. The sound jars us, and I can feel Bertrand’s grip slip, allowing me to take a glorious breath of air. The blackness around my vision recedes, and I jerk to the side, falling to my knees. Bertrand hunches over the desk, reaching for his neck and grabbing the hilt of the knife, yanking it from his flesh. It squelches, and I dry-heave.
I didn’t imagine all of this. I thought it would be clean, that he would gasp a few times and then die, but this gruesome scene in front of me—blood spurting in a rivulet from his neck—has my stomach churning. I remember that someone came in, and I turn my head as I drag in another breath, my neck constricting as I lock eyes with those glittering ones from the club.
Connor Soltorre just caught me attempting to murder his father. Or maybe I’m succeeding.
Shit.
What am I going to do now?
I watch him stand there, surveying the scene. I try not to stare directly at him, but I can’t help but notice the myriad of emotions that cross his face before he transforms it back into a mask of coldness.
My whole body is frozen where I kneel on the carpet. I think that maybe if I don’t move, he won’t notice me, but I know that’s bullshit.
“We meet again.” His deep voice rings out, causing me to jump.
For a person who stuck a knife in someone’s throat, I’m pretty skittish. I thought I would have more time to steal the files I could find and get out. I know trying to murder Bertrand was hasty, but his snarky smile and subtle mentions about theweaker sexhad me seeing red. I’ve got to have more patience. If I live past tonight.
I don’t say anything, but I watch as he strides over, his long legs eating up the distance between us. Bertrand finally crashes to the ground, and I let out my breath in a hiss as his eyes lock with mine, right in front of me.
Why hasn’t he died already?The crass thought crosses my mind, but I’m ready for this night to be over.
I think Connor is going to crouch by me, but he surprises me by bending over his father. His movements aren’t rushed or hurried, but the controlled ones of someone who has been taught the art of death all his life.
My mouth opens on a gasp as he pushes his thumb into the slit of his father’s throat, where the knife used to be. I gag again at the sight and turn my head.
“Look,” he says, his voice gruff as his thumb disappears up to his knuckle.
What the fuck is going on?
“You think you are prepared to kill a man, yes?” He glances at me, his father’s blood running bright red down his wrist and soaking the cuff of his suit. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” I say on a whisper.
“Then, you should be prepared to watch him die.”
We sit there in silence for what seems like the entire night as Bertrand’s chest heaves in a struggling fight to breathe. Connor’s thumb is still in his throat, and he leans down, whispering something in his father’s ear. Then, nothing. I swear a cold wind rushes over me as soon as the man lying prone before us is still, and I get a chill that won’t leave.
Connor turns to me and slowly rakes his blood-covered thumb from my cupid’s bow, across both my lips, and down to my chin. Reminiscent of the way he touched me at the club. After staring at his handiwork for a moment, he levels me with those piercing dark eyes that have my stomach flipping.
“His blood is now on your lips. You talk about this to anyone, and I’ll kill you myself.” He stands, pulling a cloth from his pocket and wiping his hand off as I look up at him.
