I stare at the display, my mouth suddenly dry. “This is really happening.”
“Only if you want it to.” His voice is gentler than usual.
Blue reaches out to steady me, his hand brushing my shoulder, and I flinch away from the contact before I can stop myself. The involuntary movement gives away everything—the nerves I’m trying to hide, the fear I don’t want to admit to.
“Maybe we should start with something else,” Blue continues, and there’s something protective in his tone that makes me bristle. “Some target practice. Work up to—”
The offer should be comforting, but instead it makes something stubborn flare in my chest. I asked for this. Demanded it. Last night I told Blue I wanted to kill my father’s murderers myself, and I meant every word.
“Remove his gag,” I say, surprised by how calm I sound.
Blue hesitates, studying my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“Remove his gag,” I repeat, lifting my chin.
Blue raises an eyebrow but complies. The moment the tape comes off, Julian starts talking.
“What the fuck is this? Who is this bitch in the vintage pin-up costume?”
“Language,” Blue says mildly. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”
“A lady?” Julian looks me up and down with obvious confusion. “She looks like she should be serving pie at a diner, not standing in a murder basement.”
“Saylor, meet Julian Crow,” Blue continues. “Julian, meet Saylor Mitchell. Peter’s daughter.”
Julian’s face goes white. “Oh. Shit.”
He knows he’s going to die.
“There’s that mouth again.” I pick up one of the smaller knives, testing its weight in my palm. “Tell me something, Julian. How long did it take my father to die? Did you time it while you cut him?”
Julian’s cocky demeanor falters for just a moment. “Look, your dad fought hard. Gave us more trouble than most. Gutsy bastard, I’ll give him that.”
“That’s not what I asked.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I asked if you timed it.”
“Three minutes,” Julian says, his eyes growing cold. “Three minutes from the first cut to when he stopped making noise. Would have been faster, but Brutus wanted to make it last.”
The casual cruelty of it—the way he talks about my father’s death like it was a game—makes rage bloom hot and bright in my chest.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what kind of revenge fantasy you’re playing out here, but maybe let the professional handle this?” Julian jerks his head toward Blue. “At least he knows what he’s doing.” His acceptance of his impending death is surprising, but I guess in his line of business this is normal.
“The whole point is that I do it myself.” I raise the knife, studying how the basement lights catch on the blade. “You killed my father. I kill you. Simple math.”
Julian stares at the knife in my hand, then at my face, clearly trying to reconcile my pin-up appearance with my apparent homicidal intentions. “You’re shaking.”
He’s right. My hands are trembling so badly the knife wavers in the air like I’m conducting an invisible orchestra.
“First-time nerves,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Blue, where exactly do I put this?”
Blue moves closer, and I can feel the heat of his body behind me. When he speaks, it’s low, meant only for me. “You don’t have to do this, sweetheart. I can handle Julian. You can watch if you want to see him die, but you don’t have to—”
“Stop protecting me,” I whisper back, not turning around. “I need to do this myself.”
“Wherever feels right,” Blue says finally, resigned. “Trust your instincts.”
I step closer to Julian’s chair... so close. This is it. This is justice for Dad. All I have to do is push the blade into his neck and watch him bleed.
So why do I feel like I’m about to throw up?
