“Don’t you care? He’s your employee for fuck’s sake.”
“He’s the one who chose to come here,” Stefan responds as though men being beaten to death in front of him is an unfortunate daily occurrence. Something he has no control over. “He knew the risks.”
I start crying in earnest, forcing myself to become limp, to drag at his hold as though he’s the only thing keeping me upright. Hoping for an opportunity to get away.
Then Stefan’s posture stiffens. “Hug me.”
I shake my head, twisting my body as I try to struggle free.
“Hug me,” he orders in a low whisper, his tone trying to communicate something more than the words.
I don’t understand.
I don’t know what he’s asking.
He opens his mouth again, and I finally follow his instructions. My arms barely reach each other around his broad chest. He puts his arms around me also, using his elbows to drive my arms lower.
My hand feels something. Nestled into the back of his waistband.
My eyes clear.
The instruction clicks into place.
I reach as far around Stefan as I can and grab the pistol, tugging it from the narrow space between his lower back and his belt. Even in that brief space of time, my tears wet his shirt in a flood.
He fixed it. He slotted in the magazine right, so it’ll fire.
I pull free, staggering back a step and clumsily spinning around.
Wilbur’s arm is raised. Caylon sprawls on his knees in front of him, blood pouring in a flood down the back of his shirt. So much blood. Only a living heart could pump that much blood.
He must be alive.
If I hesitate, he might not be.
One step, two steps, three. I’m within grabbing distance.
One more step and I thrust the barrel under Wilbur’s chin, hard enough that he falls back. The arm holding the statue drops to his side.
My heart beats so hard and fast, dark spots dance in front of me. A high whine sounds in my ears. My throat is full of needles.
I stare into his eyes. They’re cloudy. Confused.
As puzzled as mine the first time I came here, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing that men could be so cruel when they want something. So wicked, even when they own more than they could ever hope to enjoy. Maybe even because of that.
He’s struggling to focus.
He hasn’t had time to process what’s happened.
I’m not about to give him that opportunity.
I pull the trigger, staring into his eyes while the light goes out of them. Staring until his knees buckle and he falls.
CHAPTERTHIRTY
CAYLON
The sound doesn’t make sense at first. I hear the ringing, the dull thud as Wilbur hits the tiles, but my ears refuse to process it.
