Page 50 of Crossed

Footsteps crunch over the gravel, the slush of melted ice audible as someone walks close by. My back straightens from where I’m leaned against the wall, hidden beside the large green dumpster.

It stinks, but I ignore the stench.

And then there that enfoiré is, standing at the edge of the building, watching the employee entrance like a dog waiting for its master.

My teeth grind together.

Is he waiting for her?

He shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as her, let alone touch her. And just because I can’t have her doesn’t mean anyone else can.

I breathe deeply, trying to find my center or a justification for why I should absolutely walk out there and take this man’s life, for any reasonotherthan touching what I wish I could have. I cannot take a soul for selfish gain.

He’s married, I reason with myself. That much is obvious by the gold wedding band on his finger, and adulteryisa sin.

Righteousness swarms through my veins, and I straighten my spine, flexing my fingers in my gloves as my purpose locks in place.

This man needs his demons freed.

Before I can make another move, Amaya comes rushing out the back door, my hand flying to my chest when I see her. The pinch of my heart turns to indignation when I see the man move forward, gripping heragainwith his filthy fingers and pulling her against him like he deserves her warmth.

He pushes her into the concrete wall and then drags her farther around the corner, hidden from view and away from the security cameras lining the parking lot, and the burning in my chest explodes in a fiery blast.

I don’t have any weapons on me. Honestly, I never do. Part of the satisfaction comes from experiencing the bones breaking and cartilage crunching beneath my hands. The act offeelingthe demons detaching from the soul and scampering back to their place in hell beside the devil is all part of the whole.

But now, I fear, Iamthe devil.

My fist slams against the side of the large green dumpster, the boom echoing down the alley, and then I’m walking toward them before I can stop myself, a red haze clinging to my vision and envy scratching against my skin.

I barely notice when Amaya gets free from his grasp and races away, I’m so laser- focused on my goal.

He moves to follow, but then I’m there, my gloved hand wrapping around the back of his neck and tugging harshly, his short and stocky frame flying through the air until it’shimthat’s shoved against the brick.

“What the fuck?” he yelps.

He struggles almost immediately, and the scabbed- over wounds on my back stretch and rip, making me suck in a sharp breath. But the pain fuels me.

He is merciful.

My forearm presses into the man’s windpipe as I shush him.

“Shh, mort vivant,” I murmur quietly as I increase the pressure on his throat.

My other hand reaches down and grips his disgusting prick, enraged that it got hard for her. That it wassoclose to her sweet and sinful cunt— the one that I’mdyingto taste.

I twist, trying to rip it off his body, until his face turns red and his mouth opens in a silent scream. I assume it would be louder, but his vocal cords are compressed by the immense pressure of me cutting off his air supply with my forearm.

“Tell me, do you pray?” My voice is low and silky, and I let his groin go, moving my free hand up to pat the side of his cheek instead. “Non, it doesn’t matter,” I continue. “I want you to know something.” Leaning in, I press my lips against the side of his ear, his body flailing against my grasp. “You will die tonight.”

As soon as I release the pressure on his throat, he drops to the ground, his hands flying to his groin and cupping while he writhes in pain.

I step forward, my shadow looming over him, nothing but a single flickering yellow streetlamp there to illuminate his fear.

“I– I…please,” he stutters.

His begging makes me smile, but I need him to stay quiet. Reaching around my neck, I unwrap my long scarf and shove it into his mouth until he’s gagging on the fabric.

He groans, although it’s muffled, and I crouch down, my knee pressing into his sternum and the bottom of my coat dusting along the wet concrete. I reach out, gripping his hand in mine, bending his wrist at an angle that keeps him immobile in my grasp.