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Fuming, I spin, searching for the biggest shard I can find, and snatch it from the floor, ignoring the jagged edges slicing into my skin. And then I grab a smaller one with a sharp point before straightening again.

Holding out the large chunk before me, I position it until it’s angled just right, serving as my new mirror. Using the smaller piece, I dig the tip into my skin and start carving.

I go slow, my movements shaky from the tremors racking my body. The glass slips in my hold from both the blood pouring out of my knuckles and from where the edges are biting into my skin, and I continuously have to readjust, creating more cuts.

But the pain barely registers when it’s so fucking loud inside my head. It’s clouded with fury, and every goddamn organ in my body feels as if they’re in a blender.

My little mouse is gone.

She’s been stolen from me.

And the man behind it is the same man that I knew had a vendetta against her.

And I left him alive.

I fucking let him go on living, stewing in the anger that I caused.

Chest pumping, I dig harder, bright red bubbling from where the glass slices into my skin.

When I’m done, I drop the shard, my entire body vibrating.

I failed Addie.

And I’ll never let myself forget it.

Not with the rose now carved over my heart.

Blood coats the bottom of my boots, leaving a scarlet foot trail behind me as I approach Max’s house.

He finally hired guards.

Little good they did when now, all six of their bodies litter the ground. With bullet holes between their eyes that are staring sightlessly up at the stars, they were snuffed out because they protected the wrong person.

I don’t care how loved they were. I don’t give a shit if they had families and if they had wives and little kids at home, eagerly awaiting their arrival. Daddy’s gone, kids.

I kick open the front door, and loud chatter cuts into different versions of what the fuck.

Max's house is nearly all open concept, washed in black and gold with medieval décor. He’s a rich man but no amount of money could protect him from me.

On either side, two large staircases lead up to a balcony tha

t circles the house in a half-moon. The man of the hour appears over the balcony, a wild look in his eyes as two more guards rush up behind him.

His white-blond hair is mussed, the strands standing on end, and when he spots me, that look turns feral, his eyes rounding with hysteria.

I cock a brow. “Did you rub a balloon on your head?”

He blinks, and before any of them can process my presence, I lift my gun and shoot off two bullets—one for each guard.

Too easy.

Apparently, his money couldn’t even buy guards that are good enough to entertain me. If they were anything like me, I would’ve been shot dead before a syllable could even leave my mouth.

Max’s eyes pop open wide as his men fall to the ground, blood quickly draining past the rails and onto the pristine tile on the ground floor. He turns to run, but my voice stops him cold.

“Come here, Max.”

Slowly, he looks back at me, terror radiating from his eyes. There’s a particular stink to men who are faced with the consequences of their actions.