It doesn't come.
All I feel is satisfaction.
He deserved it and worse. If I could kill him again, I would. I'd kill him slower. Make him suffer more. Make him feel even a fraction of the terror he made Jade feel.
Jade.
I turn away from the body and find her huddled against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, her bound hands still trapped behind her back. She's staring at me with wide, shell-shocked eyes. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and blood.
I go to her. Drop to my knees in front of her. My hands are still shaking as I reach for her wrists.
"Hold still," I murmur. "I'm going to get this off."
The zip tie is tight, cutting into her skin, and I don't have anything to cut it with. I look around frantically, then remember the knife block in the kitchen. I force myself to stand, to walk across the room, to grab a knife and bring it back to her.
"Hold still," I say again, and she does, trembling but trusting me.
I slip the blade beneath the plastic and cut. The zip tie falls away, and I see the angry red welts it's left on her wrists. I'm going to be sick.
She brings her hands around to her front, rubbing her wrists, and that's when I see how badly she's shaking. Her whole body is vibrating with shock, her teeth chattering, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Jade." I cup her face in my bloody, murderer's hands, and tilt her head up to look at me. "Did he—? Jade, did he?—?"
I can't finish the question. Can't force the words out past the knot in my throat.
"No." She's sobbing now, the word barely audible. "No. You stopped him. You got here in time."
The relief that floods through me is so intense I nearly collapse. I pull her against my chest and hold her as tightly as I dare, my arms wrapped around her trembling body, my face buried in her hair.
"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I'm so sorry. I should have been here. I should have never left you alone. I'm sorry, Jade. I'm so fucking sorry."
She's crying too hard to respond. Her fingers clutch at my shirt—at the blood-soaked fabric—and she holds on like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning.
Maybe I am.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Time has lost all meaning. I just hold her and let her cry and try to convince myself that she's okay and safe now.
Eventually, her sobs quiet to hiccups, then to shaky breaths. She pulls back just enough to look at my face.
"Phoenix." Her voice is raw, wrecked. "Youkilledhim."
I glance over my shoulder at the body on the floor. At the blood pooling beneath it, spreading across the wood in a dark, glistening tide. At the fire poker lying beside him, the iron stained red.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
I wait for her to recoil and to look at me with horror and disgust. I just beat a man to death with my bare hands and a fire poker. I murdered him. Brutally. Savagely. Without hesitation or mercy.
She should be terrified of me.
Instead, she leans forward and presses her forehead against mine.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I close my eyes and breathe her in. She's alive and here. She's mine.
And I would kill a thousand men to keep her that way.
38
