Page 92 of Pretty Little Assassin

"Madam. Comms are down, I can't reach⁠—"

"Give it to me." Her hand is already out. "Screens and tech are my expertise. It is the only part of any of this I have ever been good at."

I pin my stepfather’s hands and hold him with my steel-toed boots while Madam talks to her network of techies. Madam is not fast. She is thorough, which is not the same thing, and every second of it is a second I have to keep him breathing and awake in case she fails. I casually plunge Mercy into Stepdaddy Dearest’s shoulder. Another pained scream. I’m busy enough here.

Another strike followed by a blow from the hilt to the side of his temple. That one makes his eyes roll back.

When he’s wounded enough that he can’t get to his feet, I turn to see Madam standing beside me.

“It’s done,” she says. “Five minutes to spare.”

My whole body exhales. I can finally breathe for the first time since before the gala.

“Here,” I say, handing her Mercy. “It’s not all done yet. Take your revenge first, sister. You endured him first. You created the system that created me. And you brought all of this full circle. Take your moment now.”

The blade is so bloodied that it’s slick. Her hand reaches for it without hesitation.

Madam bends down over our stepfather and stares at him with eyes as blank as the monitors she used to hide behind.

She might not be a killer, but she sure doesn’t hold back now.

Mercy slices through the side of his shirt like butter. Her cool metal doesn’t discriminate. Flesh, bone, cloth- it’s all the same. The blood comes out just as easily.

“That one is for selling me off.”

She pulls the blade out. He tries to get to his feet.

He turns his back on her, which is a decision.

I hear the metal hit bone.

“And that one is for all the pain you’ve caused so many others.”

He yelps in pain. Pathetic.

“Stop!” Fear fills his eyes.

Now that’s a sight that I have been waiting years to see. The begging.

When Madam pulls the blade out again, I eagerly watch for her third punishment. Instead, she gets to her feet and hands Mercy back.

“I already got what I needed,” she says, calm and satisfied. “I’m not the trained killer here, remember? I’m the one who wants to see my sister finish the job.”

Something settles in me.

My turn.

Our stepfather struggles to his feet, bleeding from more places than he can plug up with his hands at once. He can barely walk.

His own words come back to me. The chilling, soft threat he made to sixteen-year-old me, and I turn those words back on him now.

“You can run if you want to, Stepdaddy. But I promise, I would find you anywhere in this house. And you will regret making me look.”

That makes this even more fun.

I grin as I wipe the blood off Mercy again. “Go ahead, Stepdaddy. You can try and run if you want to.”

His stare is frozen on me. His jaw dropped wide open. His words stuck behind shock and pain and fear. He won’t get far. He’s too badly wounded. And the delicious part is that he knows it.