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But he doesn’t know that.
I peek over my shoulder to check on Mila. She’s standing where I left her, one arm crossed over her middle, while she continues to smoke her cigarette.
I might have to keep this new little friend around.
Turning back to Richard, I drag the tip of my knife over his belly, creating a shallow, faint cut in its wake. When I’ve finished, it’s a rectangle taking up a quarter of his belly. Sweat beads over his forehead and down his neck.
“I’m going to skin you. Starting here…” His breaths quiver and sputter. “Unless you answer my question… Where are the women?”
“There at the manor!”
“Where?”
“In the new construction downstairs!”
“I’ve been there; I didn’t see any captives.”
“Th-That’s just the front show. There’s a set of secret passages they’re being kept in on the opposite side.” He lets out a long exhale, and his shoulders relax, as if this information is going to save his life.
It doesn’t.
“Good boy, Richard,” I say as I walk to the wood stove, grab a bucket, then walk back. His eyes scour over me in frantic, chopped movements. I glance at Mila and give her a wink.
Then I shove the bucket onto Richard’s lap, grab him by the hair, pull his head over the bucket, and slit his throat from ear to ear, allowing the blood to pour down and fill the bucket.
I wipe the knife front and back along my pants. Mila walks over, and we work in silence as we process the two bodies. She’s good, clearly knowledgeable with where and how to cut. Whether it’s experience with humans or just from being a hunter, I don’t know. I’ve concluded that she’s not just shy and quiet. This girl can’t speak.
When we finish processing, bagging, and cleaning everything, we walk out back and toss them in the large dumpster behind the theater.
One good thing about living in an outdated society is that crimes are a lot easier to get away with. While the disappearance of his favorite pawn might bring up some questions, no one cares about Richard. Alistair won’t waste resources on searching for someone like Richard.
“Where do you live? We both need to get cleaned up. I’ll walk you home.” She grabs my arm, pointing at my eyes, then at hers. She holds her wrists together, pretending to tug from side to side, like she’s bound. She points to her eyes again, then her two fingers move out to scan the city, then she points at my chest with one finger.
“Are you one of the captive women?” She nods. Points to her eyes again, her fingers scan the city, then she points to me. She makes her fingers jump, then she lays her hands beneath her head and pretends to sleep. Mila opens her eyes again and holds her hands out, palms open as they flip and flop. “Yeah, I got it. You’ll show me tomorrow night. Come with me, we need to get inside and get cleaned up.”
And I’ve got a date to catch.
Violet
Chapter 29
“Evening, Zvyozdochka,” Dean says, sliding along the bar until he’s opposite me. He places an iced tea on the coaster, then sets his elbows on the rustic bar top and leans forward, resting his chin on his hands, his fingers laced together.
“Little star?” I take a sip of my tea and let it soothe my throat, which is tired from weeks of rehearsals. My range is being tested with my role as Cosette in Les Misérables. Truthfully, I’d rather play Eponine. Her passion, longing, and rawness of her character are my favorite qualities to bring to life onstage. There’s something a little cathartic about it for me. But I’m the only one in the company who can hit the notes and capture the tone Cosette requires.
Cain walked in on me one night while I was singing On My Own. When I hit the final note, he sat down at the piano, and we performed together. I secretly poured my love for him into that song, masking the feelings flowing through me as a performance.
Like Eponine, my feelings for Cain will always be a secret—something I will only ever express on my own.
“Yeah, it suits you.” He winks, and I can’t fight the smile from coming through. Dean’s been here for a while now, maybe five years. But we just started talking more over the past year. His black hair falls haphazardly, framing his face and covering his ears. Dark chocolate-brown eyes that almost appear black, permanently swollen lips, burn scars that cover his right arm and three-quarters of his torso. Despite his boss’s nagging, Dean always shows off his body by going shirtless beneath his apron. He told me the scars are from when his orphanage burned down back in Russia. Oh, that’s right, he also has a thick Russian accent that I’ve come to love.
Dean’s a few years older than me. But recently, I’ve found myself thinking he’s pretty cute.
“How’s your night going?” I ask, then take another sip of my tea.
“Better now that rehearsals are over and you’re here, Zvyozdochka.” I nibble at my lower lip, my cheeks blushing when he reaches forward and twirls a lock of my hair around his finger. “I’ll take tomorrow night off. Meet me here for dinner?” He tugs at the lock of hair before letting it go, resting his chin back on his hands while staring me down with his unrelenting eye contact.
“Hey, a word?” Cain’s stone-cold voice covers me in ice. I swallow, my heart thunders against my chest, goose bumps spread down my spine, but I can’t move.
