I push open the door to my bedroom with my shoulder, carrying Saylor across the threshold like some twisted version of a wedding night. She’s starting to stir in my arms, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks.
My bedroom is the one space in Maison Rouge that’s purely mine—no guest accommodations, no consideration for anyone else’s comfort. The walls are painted deep charcoal, the furniture is all mahogany and leather, and the massive four-poster bed dominates the space like an altar to hedonism.
I settle Saylor onto the black silk sheets, smoothing her hair away from her face as she slowly returns to consciousness. When her eyes finally focus on mine, there’s something new there. Something darker.
“Did I really stab him in the fucking hand?” she asks quietly.
“You sure did. I’m proud of you.”
“I think I’m going to be sick again.”
“Perfectly normal reaction. Violence takes practice.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “How do you feel about it? The stabbing, not the nausea.”
She considers this with the serious attention the question deserves. “I think knives might not be my thing,” she says finally. “All that blood. God, what kind of wannabe killer says blood isn’t their thing?”
She sounds genuinely annoyed with herself, like she’s failed some sort of basic life skill.
“It’s honest.” I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. “And Leroy deserved every inch of that blade. Every killer has their own way, love. I choose the axe, some choose a gun, some choose—”
“No gun,” she says quickly. “I actually want the kill to be drawn out.”
“See? You already know what you don’t want. We’ll figure out exactly what your style is. No need to rush it.”
“I feel like the worst student,” she says with a frustrated sigh. “Like I’m getting an F in murder.”
“At least a solid C+,” I assure her. “You did pin his hand to the chair on your first try.”
I’ve never found a woman sexier than she is right now—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, still holding the memory of how perfect that knife looked in her grip. The way she wielded that blade, the deadly calm in her voice... she’s speaking my love language.
From downstairs comes the sound of Hans attempting to maintain dinner conversation with three hostile dinner guests, one of whom is still bleeding on my antique chairs.
“Should we go back down?” Saylor asks, but she makes no move to sit up.
“Not unless you want to experiment more tonight.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my fingertip. “But you’ve had enough for one evening. I’ll have Hans store them on ice for later—no need to act now.” I reluctantly pull away from the bed. “Rest here. I’ll handle the cleanup and be back shortly.”
“Blue?” She catches my hand before I can leave. “Thank you. For letting me be the one to hurt him.”
“You’re welcome,” I say simply. “Baby steps.”
As I head back downstairs, Leroy is still making pathetic noises about his hand.
Just another evening at Maison Rouge.
Leroy’s still screaming.
And I’m already planning tomorrow’s lesson.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saylor
The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me was Blue’s hand smoothing my hair back from my face, promising he’d handle the cleanup downstairs. I wake up disoriented in a bed that’s definitely not mine, sinking into a mattress so soft it’s like floating on toasted marshmallows. The sheets beneath me are actual silk, not the cheap knockoff stuff from discount stores. Heavy burgundy curtains block most of the light, and I have no idea if it’s evening or the middle of the night. A fireplace crackles across the room, throwing shadows on walls covered with oil paintings of shipwrecks and ravens. Everything about this space screams expensive but also mysterious.
How long was I out? The last clear memory I have is driving a carving knife through Leroy Crow’s hand and watching his blood paint the white tablecloth. Then my stomach decided to stage a rebellion, and apparently my brain followed suit by shutting down completely.
The shower is running in the adjoining bathroom, steam drifting through the partially open door along with the sound of water against tile. I sit up slowly, testing my stomach’s current stance on being vertical. Better. Still shaky, but no immediate threat of losing whatever’s left in my system.
My dress is wrinkled but still intact, my hair probably resembles a bird’s nest, and I can still taste that metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue. But I’m alive, conscious, and Leroy Crow is hopefully still bleeding somewhere in this house.
