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I make a show of swaying against the counter, lolling my head as he leers down at me.
“He tried to tell me you were a Maldonado. But I knew he was wrong.” David scoffs, disgusted. “You’re just fucking one of them. Too caught up with thugs to realize you’re a tiny fish in a sea of pain. You hooked someone bigger than you, someone who’s more important than you could ever be. Now look at you, on the wrong side of the Bay, too far away from your safety net.”
“You live to be right, don’t you?” I gaze up at him through my lashes, a smirk creeping over my bloody lips. “But you’ll die because you’re wrong.”
In one swift motion, I kick out at his knee and brush the dish towel away to grab the bread knife at my right. David slams into the kitchen island to keep his balance, only to freeze in place when I press the serrated blade to the delicate skin of his throat.
“You don’t have what it takes, Gemma.” He spits the fake name at me like it’s poisonous.
Now his mistake is glaringly obvious.
He thought I was fucking Jasper, not that I am Jasper.
I nod in agreement with his assessment. “Gemma doesn’t have what it takes.”
David reaches for me, and I ram my knee into his groin. He sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t fall far. I press the blade into his skin, flashing him a quick smile when blood runs down his neck. He swallows, finally understanding how badly he’s fucked himself.
“But I’m not Gemma,” I explain. “I’m something else entirely, and the trail of bodies I’ve left behind me speaks for themselves.”
In a rush, I pull the knife away from his throat, jamming it into the soft tissue where his ribs meet in an upward, angled motion to puncture his lung. I give it a good twist before I remove it and watch the shock roll over his face.
He tries to fight me off, but he’s still expecting the weak woman he thought I was. It’s not that I’m physically stronger than him; I’m not. I just don’t fear the pain. Not like he wants me to...
So when he strikes me again, I laugh at him. He loses the need to fight and plummets straight into survival mode.
David dashes for the door.
“You know my name now,” I call out as I follow him. “I’m sure you also know by now that I leave no witnesses.”
I kick the back of his leg, and he buckles, tumbling onto his hands and knees. His hair is still damp when I fist my fingers through the tangled strands. I jerk his head when he tries to struggle against me, arching his neck to expose his throat. He flails about, his pain and panic make him indecisive. He swings wildly at me before clutching his stomach.
“You should have paid attention to your friend’s warning, David. But you can’t stand listening to someone else’s advice. You live to be right,” I repeat, whispering in his ear. “But you died today because you were wrong.”
I slide the serrated blade across his throat, from ear to ear, while applying as much pressure as I can to cut as deep as the bread knife will allow. It’s sharper than I thought, leaving a gaping wound behind.
This type of kill is messy, but not why people think. The blood doesn’t really spray. It just splatters in the direction I pulled the knife as my slashing reaches the end of his skin. The messy part is the spilling of the blood. And in this case, it oozes from his neck too fast to be stopped unless he was already lying on an operating table with a surgeon at the ready.
It takes him less than two minutes to lose enough blood to not fight me and a little over four minutes to become unresponsive. But I wait him out before I let him fall face first in his own crimson stain to go wash my hands in his pristine sink.
Riot calls just as I drop the dish towel onto the counter.
“I’m outside,” he informs me.
I peek out the blinds on the window behind the couch. “You missed the fun.”
“Open the door,” Riley gently commands as he kills his engine.
“I can’t,” I confess, frowning at David’s body blocking the front entrance. “I’ll open the garage, though. Pull my car inside. I left my keys in the cupholder.”
“Gem,” he growls.
I groan. “What, Ri?”
“I have someone with me,” he cautiously explains.
“Is she pretty?” I tease. “I’m not exactly in the mood to share—”
“I think I’m pretty,” a familiar voice coos in the background.
