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We’re us.
I’m positive beyond any shadow of a doubt that when I come clean to Prue about what I’ve been doing to her night after night, she won’t forgive me easily for lying. She won’t be mad about my actions, however.
I’ve done everything because of my love and obsession for her. Only her.
What Jason had done was nothing like it.
He’d betrayed his patients, tried to ruin them.
Like I’m about to ruin him.
“What do you want?” he spits out.
I don’t answer right away. I let my menacing glare roam across him. To intimidate him.
Karma, apparently, hasn’t stopped when she messed up his plans. It’s as though it has ravaged his body, his face, his stature. Despite the lack of light around us—the lamp inside Jason’s house sheds enough light to illuminate the monster in the doorway—I see how much he’s changed.
The six-foot-tall man’s back hunches, cutting off about three to four inches of his height. His dark-gray hair turned white, and bald spots decorate his head.
Deep wrinkles appear on his forehead, the corners of his eyes, above his top lip. Age spots decorate his scrawny arms, neck, and face.
His clothes match the rest of him. Three brown stains taint what used to be a white T-shirt. Could be beer, could be food, could be both. The flannel shorts he’s wearing sag down his slim waist, about to drop to the floor any minute now.
Yeah, karma did a serious job on him.
Yet it doesn’t seem the man himself has gotten the hint that he should sit the fuck down.
He should’ve never come after Prue. Never.
Because I don’t count on karma to finish the job.
I’m payback. I’m vengeance. I’m Prue’s shield against the fiends of this world, especially this one who wants to hurt me through her.
“I don’t have time for your stupid games,” he snarls. “What. Do. You. Want?”
The bastard continues to act like he has the upper hand.
Cute. Real fucking cute.
“To come inside.”
“It’s late, and—“
“Move.” I don’t ask for permission. Don’t fucking need it.
Something he should get used to, and fast.
Without waiting for him to add another word, I sidestep him, brushing his shoulder as I walk inside. I cut through the foyer, standing in his living room like I belong there.
My eyebrows knead together, my nose scrunching in disgust as the strong smell of rotten food infiltrates my nostrils. Hands on my hips, I scan the mess around me, curiosity pulling me to search for the source.
Dirty plates and cups are everywhere—the carpet, the end tables, on the freaking mantel. Shirts, sweatpants, and underwear are strewn on the old leather couches. I spot a pair of boxers hanging from the corner of his TV set.
There’s litter wherever my eyes land. He’s not a hoarder—the place is practically empty of his possessions—he’s just a disgusting slob.
He wasn’t anything like this. His clinic had been spotless, his old house impeccable.
He sure can afford a cleaner, so what the fuck is this?
