I want to kill him.
No, Ineedit.
He slams the trunk handle and drags it open with a curse. “I don’t know why I bother with this. You want to go there fucking barehanded, I should let you kill yourself.”
Estella steps forward, slipping a knife from her pocket, the snap of the clip small and clean in the cold air. In the next second, the blade hovers at his throat. He gasps, lashes trembling, and at that, her smile stretches thin and cruel, never touching her eyes.
Up close, her hand trembles—the faintest quiver, like a moth’s wing. One wrong move, and it’s over. There’s that psychotic light in her eyes, a heat that blurs the world at the edges; when she’s thirsty before the kill, everything else fades to shadow.
I’m caught between awe and dread, suspended in that razor-thin place where fascination and fear blur together. The instinct to move toward her collides with the instinct to stay still and witness the way she cuts through the world with nothing but her existence. Her presence swells through the space, thick and charged, a force that feels perilous and irresistible all at once.
“I’m never barehanded, Owen,” she whispers, her voice low and filled with dangerous promises.
He swallows hard, a bead of sweat breaking on his forehead. “You’re brave, doing it right here in front of Emmett,” he says, words fraying at the edges.
“I was dreaming of different ways to kill you,” she rasps. “Not the most poetic, is it?”
“Stop it, both of you,” Emmett snaps, and our focus shifts to him. He holds a baseball bat like a prop, pretending to be amenace just like his friend. “I swear to God, we’re done with your bullshit.”
Estella whistles, a thin, casual sound, then steps back, leaving a neat red line across Owen’s neck—a trivial cut against the map of worse things that could happen.
He slaps his palm over the wound, then angrily peels it away, his eyes fixed on the blood as it blooms and freckles his skin like paint. “Next time,” he spits, “I’ll be the one who catches you off guard. And you won’t be so lucky.”
Estella moves on, ignoring his little jab, satisfied with the chaos she stirred. I keep close to her as she goes to the trunk, snatching at the sagging fabric of a duffel and yanking it open. Metal glints in the light, rifles lined like sleeping beasts, Glocks staring up at us with their black mouths, silencers stacked beside them. The scent of oil and cold metal cuts through the air as we scan the weapons and contemplate our choices.
“So this is your brilliant plan,” Estella says, sarcasm slick in her words. She leans in, fingers running over an AR-15. “Putting a bullet in his head. We could’ve done this hours ago.”
“The target cannot escape unharmed,” Owen reminds, lifting a rifle for himself and shoving another toward Emmett. “Eliminate at all costs.”
“Thanks for the obvious, dipshit,” she says.
He snatches the rifle, hand twitching, looking like a child pretending to be an adult. Knuckles whitening, he grips the stock, his face contorting into anger as he tries for authority. “Will you show some respect?!” he screams, and a flock of birds erupts from the trees, flapping white against the sky.
So much for quiet and stealth.
“Scary. Oh, so scary,” she mocks before pivoting, dark eyes narrowing and voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper meant only for me. “He’s obviously insane since his favorite color is red and he loves to rewatchAmerican Psycho.”
As soon as Estella finishes, Emmett decides to move. His hand shoots toward her as if to claim her like an object laid out on a table.
My instincts flare hot and loud, a siren behind my teeth. Blood hammers in my ears, the stale air tasting metallic and sharp as I throw myself forward without thinking. I drive a shoulder into his chest, my fist connecting with the soft bridge of his nose. He emits a wet, surprised cough and stumbles back, palm pressed to his face.
I haven’t emptied myself into the full strike—only enough to unbalance him. Thin rivers of red snake down from his nostrils to his chin as he presses his tongue to his lips and smears the blood, like a child trying to make sense of a sudden bruise.
Heat blooms through me with the aftermath. It’s not just the rush of adrenaline, it’s something more. Something older stirs in my gut, an animal pulse that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
There’s a strange, electric tug in my stomach that sets my teeth on edge and makes my fingers ache to do more. For a fleeting heartbeat, something untamed rises within me. It is not just anger, not just the need to protect, but a hunger coiling through my veins in a way I can barely define. The violence of the motion resonates through my limbs, a thrum traveling up my spine and blossoming at the base of my skull.
Estella stands there with quiet amusement on her face. She doesn’t need me, she never does. We all know she could kill both of them with a single, effortless move.
Yet there is something in showing her that I can intervene, that I can step into the space she occupies and hold it for her, something that scratches at me like an itch I can’t reach. The awareness of that capability blends with a sour-sweet satisfaction that makes my head spin. Pleasure and discomfort braid together until they are indistinguishable, and the painflaring in my temples answers them with a slow, pulsing drumbeat.
A laugh slices through the fog of sensation. “Nice instincts, buddy,” Owen comments, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to measure me up. His gaze drills into my face, surprised and amused at once. Then he tilts his head toward Estella, voice sliding into a leer. “You sure he’s a newbie? Seems like a professional to me.”
Another wave of heat rolls through me, but this time it comes wrapped in ice—a sudden paralysis that drains the color from my face until I feel translucent, like a ghost passing through my own skin. Words like his are nothing new; they slide from mouths into the world, meaningless debris. Still, they land—small pellets of doubt ricocheting inside my chest, seeding a slow, sour paranoia that tastes like metal.
“He has a good teacher,” Estella says unemotionally. “Now, can we finally do our fucking job?”
He nods reluctantly. “The newbie and I are going to check the shed. You and Emmett stay here and watch the house. If you see him, shout.”
