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Chapter
Eighteen
My lashes fluttered open, and the world spun into focus, the edges smudged by confusion. I was tethered to a kitchen chair, wrists and ankles chafing against the cold restraints. The throbbing in my skull was a relentless reminder of the ambush, the kind of pain that crawls under your skin and sets up camp. I blinked away the haze and memories flickered like faulty street lights in the back alley of my mind.
Oswin's smug face.
Kylo—shit, Kylo—going down hard, his body crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. I should've seen it coming, should've been faster, should've?—
"Yo ho, look at her go," a voice trilled from across the kitchen and cut through my mental replay. It was Oswin, bastard extraordinaire. He bopped his head to a rap song blaring from the speakers.
I listened, and cringed, as he belted the verse word for word- but very obviously skipping over the n-word.
"Really? Censoring the lyrics?" I grumbled, my voice laced with disbelief. "What’s the matter, Oswin? Not feeling gangsta enough to say it while a black person's in the room? Or is it because you know I'd kick you fucking ass if you did?"
"Darling Averill," Oswin crooned as he turned down the music with a smirk on his lips, "I'm a mass murderer, not a racist. There's a fine line between artistic expression and outright insensitivity. Even I have standards."
"Wow, how noble of you," I snarked and rolled my eyes so hard they threatened to lodge themselves in the back of my head.
"Besides," he continued and pirouetted around the kitchen like some deranged ballerino, "one does have an image to maintain. Can't be slinging slurs when you've got a reputation as the most stylish killer in the five boroughs."
"Call Vogue," I said dryly. "They're missing their cover psycho." My arms strained against the restraints, but deep down, I knew escape wasn't an option. Not yet. Not until I played this twisted shitshow of a game Oswin had set up.
"Patience, my petulant PI," he teased and reached for something in a drawer. "You'll be free soon enough. But first, breakfast."
"Can't wait to see what culinary bullshit you've cooked up to go with this delightful kidnapping," I muttered and eyed him warily. There was a method to his madness, there had to be. And I needed to suss it out before I could make my move. Because one thing was damn sure: Averill Winslow doesn't play the victim. Not for long.
"Do all serial killers take cooking classes, or is this just your special way of tenderizing the meat?" My voice was as sharp as the knife I wished I had in my hand. Oswin's back was turned to me as he fiddled with whatever stupid dish he was making, but I knew he could hear the ice in my words.
"Ah, Averill, always quick with a barb. It's part of your charm, really." he said without turning around. His tone was light, infuriatingly amused. "And it's not serial killing, darling. It's more like... selective chaos."
"Call it what you want," My voice was a low growl as my hatred for him bubbled up like acid reflux. "Doesn't change the fact that you're a murderer." The word hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
"Murderer" was too clean of a word for what he'd done. He’d carved a hole in my life that nothing could fill. He took her—my mother, the one person who’d made this shitty world bearable. And for what? Some twisted sense of time-traveling justice?
"Selective chaos," I laughed and leaned into the bitterness that clung to my tongue. "Is that what you told my mom before you killed her? Made it sound like some kind of sick fucking favor?"
Oswin paused and the playful edge of his voice dulled for a moment. When he faced me, there was a shadow in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you?"
"Figured out? No. But I know enough." I squirmed to test the strength of the restraints. "I know you're tangled up in her death. And I swear on her grave, you'll pay for that."
"Whoa, love. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said and turned back to his work, trying to brush off my accusation like crumbs from a cutting board. "Patience, Averill. All will be revealed in due course."
"Revealed? Here's a revelation for you—I hope you choke on your fucking secrets." I wanted to hurt him, to make him feel a fraction of the pain he'd made me feel.
"Breakfast is almost ready," he announced, oblivious—or indifferent—to the anger that raged inside me.
"Nothing builds an appetite quite like being tied to a chair by the man who ruined your life."
"Ruined, or just... redirected?" he teased, but there was a flicker of something else behind those words. Regret? Doubt? Hard to say.
"Redirected straight to hell," I seethed. "But don't worry, Oswin. I'll be dragging you down there with me."
Oswin's laughter fizzled into the air like cheap champagne and his body swayed to some internal melody as he shuffled around the kitchen. His feet seemed to glide over the sleek tile floor, hips swinging in time with the beat of a song only he could hear. The bastard was dancing—literally dancing—while I sat bound and fuming.
"Music in my head," he said, answering the unasked question, "makes for better company than most." He shimmied past me with a rhythmic sway in his step that was infuriatingly graceful.
"Must be a lonely fucking concert," I snapped, but he only grinned, the edges of his lips curling up like they held secrets too dark for daylight.
