“Same here,” another one admits, loosening his collar. “Getting warm in here.”
Brutus frowns, studying his own hands as they begin to tremble. “What the hell—”
That’s when the first one collapses.
He pitches forward onto the table, wine glass shattering against the wood. His body convulses once, twice, then goes still. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, dark against his pale skin.
“What—” another one starts to say, but the words dissolve into choking sounds as he grabs his throat, eyes wide with terror.
Panic erupts around the table. Men try to stand, to run, to call for help, but their legs won’t support them. The poison is working exactly as expected—consciousness remains while everything else shuts down.
“You,” Brutus gasps, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You did this. You fucking poisoned us.”
I lean back in my chair, completely calm while chaos unfolds around me. “Guilty as charged,” I say, my British accent now carrying an edge of steel.
“Who are you?” he demands. “Really?”
I stand slowly, smoothing my silk dress while men die around me like dominoes falling in sequence. When I speak, my voice carries across the room with perfect clarity, the British accent now dropped completely.
“My name is Sara Mitchell. My father was Peter Mitchell. Five years ago, you murdered him in front of me, and I’ve been dreaming of this moment ever since.”
Brutus’s eyes widen with recognition and fear.
“You searched for a broken little girl,” I add, walking slowly around the table while he struggles to stay upright in his chair. “But she grew up. She learned things. She made friends who taught her exactly how to get to you.”
Three more bodies hit the floor. The sounds are wet and final.
“Blue Crow,” Brutus rasps, understanding finally dawning. “He’s not dead.”
“Very much alive,” I confirm pleasantly. “And probably wondering how I’m doing right about now.”
I reach Brutus’s chair and crouch beside him, studying his face as the poison works its way through his system. He’s still conscious, still aware, just as Duffy promised. Still able to feel everything that’s happening to him.
“I want you to know something before you die,” I whisper, close enough that only he can hear. “My father was a good man. He saved people. He made the world better just by being in it. And you killed him because he refused to let you hurt someone innocent.”
Brutus tries to speak but only manages bloody foam.
“He begged you to let me live,” I continue. “Do you remember that? How he offered you everything—his life, his money, his complete surrender—if you would just let his daughter go?”
His eyes are starting to glaze, but I can see he remembers.
“Well, congratulations. You got exactly what you wanted. Peter Mitchell is dead.” I lean closer, my lips almost touching his ear. “But his daughter is very much alive. And she just killed every single one of you.”
Brutus tries to respond, but the poison has other plans. Blood starts pouring from his nose in thick streams, followed by his ears. His body convulses violently, and he vomits blood across the table with wet, choking sounds. His eyes roll back, showing only whites, while his fingers claw uselessly at his throat.
I watch every second of it with a smile. The girl who used to faint at the sight of blood is long gone. This is who I am now—someone who can watch a man die in agony and feel nothing but satisfaction.
A man that deserves it, of course.
I stand and walk to the window, looking out into the Witchwood where I know Blue is waiting. The silence behind me is complete now—twelve men who woke up this morning planning to celebrate Blue’s death, now dead themselves.
The irony is so perfect it makes me smile.
I pull out my phone and send a simple text: “Come collect me. It’s finished.”
Then I sit down to wait, and take a long, luxurious drink of my wine surrounded by the corpses of my father’s killers.
I know my father would be proud of me.
