He yelps and gets to his feet, then stumbles as he tries to get away from me. “Please don’t…”
I make sure the distance between us isn’t long, since I know for sure that I’ll miss if he’s too far. I only do well with close-ranged shots, buthedoesn’t need to know that.
I feel my hand shake a little, so I let go of a breath and try to steady it. The air is especially chill now as it breezes past me, making me realize that I’m sweating.
Timothy regains his balance and turns as he tries to run, but I take a step forward and pull the trigger. He screams as the bullet homes itself in his right thigh, then clutches the wound as he kneels down on the grass, tainting it with his blood.
Bullet count: three.
“Youbitch!” he spits at me, dragging himself sideways.
I erase the gap between us and stand over him. “Call me whatever you want, Timothy. I, at least, know the difference between taking a life that’s deserving, and one that isn’t. Youfailed to understand that, and the price you’re paying for it is irreversible.” I once again point my Glock at him, and as he opens his mouth in a scream, I shoot him directly in the middle of his throat, puncturing it.
Blood and shreds of skin splatter on my dress, and some of it sticks to my gun and arm as Timothy cups his throat, and his body thrashes as he struggles to breathe. He coughs blood all over himself, and his eyes widen as he reaches out a stained hand to grab onto mine.
I step back and kick him in the chest, watching as he falls flat on the ground. He jerks once as his eyes – so dim of life – bore into mine. He tries to say something, but all I hear is a wet, gurgling sound as more blood pours out of his mouth. A long second passes as I continue to watch him while he fights a lost battle, then sigh when his chest arches, and he takes one final breath before going completely still.
No one can prepare you for witnessing the face of death in its true, blatant nature. We see movies and TV shows where actors pretend to die, and we shed countless tears over their impeccable performances. But that’s not how things work in real life, because in reality, death is a slow, aching process. Perhaps not as much in Timothy’s case, but still, it was a process nonetheless.
“What the fuck have you done?” comes an unfamiliar voice from behind me.
I turn, and come face-to-face with a security personnel holding a silver handgun that he’s aimed at me. He’s obviously not one of Aras’s guards, and with Fred having just sent his delivery, it could mean that this guy works for the Byron family.
“My job,” I say, raising my Glock as I jerk my head forward and read the name embossed on his badge. “Drop your gun, Aaron.”
Bullet count: two.
“Why did you kill him?” Aaron asks, refusing to do as I’ve asked him to.
“I’ve already explained everything to him,” I start, gesturing towards Timothy’s corpse. “And I hate repeating myself, so I’m afraid you’ll have to get the reasoning out of him instead.”
He sneers at me. “Fredrick will have my fuckingheadif I tell him that his heir isdead.” He grits his teeth and shifts towards me. “So stop messing with me and tell me who you are, and why you killed Timothy.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Before he can so much as blink, I pull the trigger, putting a hole in his forehead.
Bullet count: one.
Aaron showers my face and neck with warm, heady-smelling blood, and, to myfuckingdismay, small lumps of his brain as well.
I guess it’s my fault for picking the forehead, eh?
“JesusChrist,” I hiss as I wipe beads of blood off my left eye, then swipe away a marshy piece of brain off my cheek. “Fuck mylife,” I mumble, but I shouldn’t have, because that results in another chunk of brain to glide down my cheek and onto my lips.
I gag and spit it out, then back away from his body before making my way to the bench where my clutch is. I need to call Dorran so that we can get the hell out of here. I am sodonewith tonight. All I need right now is a bath and the comfort of my bed. I’ve seriously had enough, goodgrief.
I manage only to reach halfway towards the bench, and have to stop when I hear heavy footsteps behind me. My heart starts beating a mile a second as I sense a presence looming on my back, and a chill rakes down my spine when the person releases a shallow breath. The raw, metallic stench of skin and blood on my body intensifies as the wind picks up speed, but I don’t focus on it for too long, instead keeping my attention on the figure tracking my every move.
Their silhouette flickers in my peripheral, but it’s distorted enough that it’s really hard for me to tell if it’s a man or a woman.
I grip my gun tighter when it starts slipping through my blood-slicked fingers, and brace myself before turning. But I barely get to shift, because as soon as I move, the person acts, hitting the side of my head with something sturdy, causing my vision to go pitch-black, and for my body to tumble downward as I lose consciousness.
Why does everything feel so weighed down, yet weightless all at once…?
22.
The first thing I notice is the smell of blood, followed by the sensation of it trickling down my temple. And then I feel a pinching, all-consuming pain on the right side of my head. I hear voices around me – muffled, urgent – followed by footsteps that are dense yet unhurried.
My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my throat is so dry that I can barely swallow. I feel grass under me, and realize that I’m on the ground, back up. I groan as I shift my stiff body, then force myself to open my eyes.
