I climb the high metal fence with ease. Hell, I don’t even need any extra tools, because they don’t have barbed wire like you can find around every fence and window at my father’s compound. My boots thump onto the dirt on the other side of the fence, and I stay low to the ground as I look left and right, surveying my surroundings.
The guards are in the middle of a shift change, so I slip right past them with no problems. And before I know it, I’m climbing the flowering vine and lattice on the side of the house that leads up to a second-story window. I feel like Romeo in that stupid play our teacher made us read about in school, but I’m not seeking love from my Juliet. No, I’m seeking her tears and her blood. I want Savina tocry and beg before I snuff out her pathetic life. I want to see the soul leave her pretty, green eyes.
God, those eyes.Dark emerald green, threaded with amber, like sunlight shining through the forests back home in Romania. They remind me of my childhood, when life wasn’t so fucked up, and my mother was still around, pretending to love me. Right before she abandoned us after calling my father a ruthless, unforgiving man and me a fucking monster.
Pulling on a pair of black gloves, I jimmy the window before easing it open one inch at a time, listening to the night breathe around me. Once it’s fully opened, I sit and wait for alarms to go off, for lights to flicker on, but nothing happens.
The curtains faintly rustle as I climb through the window, my heavy boots sinking into the plush carpet below me, concealing my movements. I pause, waiting patiently, counting breaths, and observing the quiet bedroom sprawled before me.
My footsteps don’t exist on the carpet, and I move through Savina’s room like a ghost, just like I was trained. There’s a fancy dresser to my right and a writing desk tucked in the corner. I can’t see many details since the room is mostly swallowed by darkness, save for a thin strip of light leaking from the adjoining bathroom door.
My eyes sweep over the four-poster bed a few feet in front of me. I had expected Savina to be in bed by now, sleeping; but when I approach, I see no sign of her there. It’s untouched and perfectly made; the covers smoothed out meticulously.
Leaning down, I fist the comforter in my hand before bringing it up to my face and inhaling deeply. It smells likeher. Sweet and innocent like wildflowers and vanilla. Untouched by the evil in this world. A princess up in an ivory tower, not knowing exactly what horrors lie in wait for her in the shadows.Like me.
But Savina is about to learn what true evil is tonight. I know I can’t force my way out of this arranged union; but if I decide to kill my future bride, then the contract will automaticallybe null and void.
I vividly remember Savina’s reaction to learning that I would be her husband one day. How she practically cried out in pure revulsion at the idea of being tied to me in any way. It scraped something ugly loose inside my chest, and a dark, vicious part of me wanted to carve that fear into something real, right there in front of her family, just so she’d understand what terror actually looked like.
Suddenly, I hear the shower turn on inside the bathroom and the sound of water cascading against tile. I slowly move closer to the cracked door. Steam beads along the mirror above the sink, blurring the room into soft edges. Savina’s silhouette passes by the glass, and I catch a glimpse of the curve of her delicate shoulder; her long, brown hair cascading down her smooth, pale back. I don’t see anything explicit, and yet my pulse stutters like it’s been caught doing something nefarious.
Retreating, I sit down on her bed and decide to wait until she’s done. And then I’ll pounce when she least expects it, when she’s most vulnerable.
Withdrawing my favorite switchblade from my pocket, I begin to hash out a plan inside of my mind. I know it’s important that I don’t leave anything behind that could incriminate me in Savina’s murder. Maybe I’ll plant some evidence on one of the housekeepers or a guard just to make it more believable. Some poor bastard will take the fall for her murder, but at least my hands will be clean; and my family won’t have to suffer the consequences.
I flick the knife open, the blade glinting in the beam of light shining through the crack in the door. I smile down at my prized possession. I’ve always been a knife kind of guy. That up close and personal style of fighting that leads to death really gives you the opportunity to see the emotion on someone’s face when they realize they’re losing the battle and that they’re going to die. A shiver runs up my spine just at the thought of it. That’s my favorite part. Watching someone’s soul leave their eyes when they’re on the brink of death. The finality settling over their face when they realize I’m their own personal reaper.
If Savina is lucky, I’ll give her a merciful death…even if she might not deserve it. She is Donato Cipriano’s daughter, after all, and perhaps just as evil and corrupt as her father. That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of when something happens that surprises the hell out of me and has my heart skipping a beat inside of my chest.
Savina begins tosingin the shower.
Her voice drifts into the room, soft and unguarded, curling around every corner like it belongs there. It’s raw, low and tender in places, brighter in others, and threaded with something that catches under my ribs and pulls firmly. I don’t recognize the lyrics, but the song sounds strangely familiar to me somehow.
Savina is singing for herself. This version of her doesn’t know I’m here, listening intently and hanging on to every single note like a lifeline. She sounds better than any of the singers on the radio. She sings with a deep emotion I’ve never heard before, and I can feel my heart picking up in pace as I realize she reminds me of a little nightingale. In my native tongue, I would call herprivighetoare mica. I can remember their beautiful songs filling my ears as I walked in the forest with my mother, holding her hand and beaming up at her because that was before I knew about violence, about death. Everything about Savina makes me think ofhome. A simpler time, before I became what I ultimately become.
Savina’s voice is so sweet and smooth, it begins to calm me down like nothing ever has before. Slowly, I begin to relax, my tense muscles becoming slack. Even my breathing slows down. It’s almost like I’m in some sort of trance as the singing continues. Her voice is so pretty, it begins pulling me to another place. One where I’m not who I am and she’s not who she is…
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Standing abruptly, I try to force the feelings out of my mind and body. I refuse to feelanything, especially anything towards this girl, who I’m about to murder.
I need to focus.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
Raising my hand, I slap my cheek. Hard. And then again and again until I taste blood in my mouth. Having learned that trick from my father, I use it quite often. Sometimes you just need pain to refocus your thoughts. I always had trouble focusing when I was younger, so he would just beat the shit out of me until I began to understand that not focusing would only lead to grueling, devastating pain. And I hate to admit it, but it worked.
Sitting back down on the bed and forcing myself to tune her out, I look around the room. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can see how nearly every inch of the room is drenched in pinks and purples, crowded with every fluffy thing imaginable. It’s like a soft, deliberate shield, as if the stuffed animals are meant to guard her from her father’s harsh, corrupt world.
My fist grips the knife harder in my hand. At least they’re allowing Savina to live a good childhood, I guess. My father started training me when I was five years old. I never had what was considered a normal upbringing. Against my mother’s wishes, my father turned me into a killer by the age of seven. I guess that was a big part of the reason why she left us. It didn’t take her long to find drugs to drown out the memories of us, and then she wound up dead in a ditch on the side of the road not long after.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I think to myself,What the hell is getting into me right now?
And then I realize it has to be Savina’s melancholy song dredging up all my past memories and making me feel shit I don’t want to feel. I’m the best when it comes to repressing and denying any sort of emotion. And so, if Savina is making me feel like this already, then what would our marriage be like? Oh God, would we talk about our feelings over dinner after she asks how my day was?Fuck that.
