Page 45

Alexander

W here the fuck is my wife? Where is that bitch?

I prowl through the house, stalking the corridors, trying to work out where the whore is hiding. At every turn, I’m convinced she’s going to jump out at me, claw at me, try to gut me with a knife like the very savage that she is.

Or perhaps it won’t be her. Perhaps it’ll be my brother.

I smirk at the notion of it being him, Rafferty. Playing the noble protector, her knight in shining armour.

If he does come for me then I’m ready for it. Ready for him. I’ll gut him like the pig he is, and he can join her out on the rocks once it’s all over. Their bodies can rot together and what irony it’ll be, that they’ll be there, in death, because he was too inept to save her in life.

When I get to her room, I pause on the threshold seeing all the carnage.

It looks like a bloodbath. One of the maids is barely a metre from the door, curled up like rigor mortis has already set in.

I stride over, yanking on her body and she rolls over, laying on her back, with her limbs still in that curled up position.

Yeah, she’s dead alright. There’s a syringe sticking out from her throat and that tells me the cause, but her face, her face is mangled mess of blood and fuck knows what else.

Her eyes are gone. It’s like someone ripped them right out of her, and all that’s left are the bloodied, hollowed out sockets.

My stomach turns, and I swallow down the bile. I’ve never been a squeamish man, but the sight of her mangled corpse makes me want to puke.

A wail from the other side of the room catches my attention. I turn my head and see the other maid, dragging her body like her legs no longer work.

I don’t know her name, never cared to learn it.

That’s the beauty of pet names, keeps it easy, keeps it simple.

You don’t have to waste any real energy while the girl is all the more softer for thinking you gave her a term of endearment for a reason.

Poor thing was never but a bit of amusement when my wife was being a bitch but she did give good head, I’ll give her that.

I squat down, brushing her hair from her bloodied face.

“Al, Al…” She sobs. “Is that you?”

She’s lost her eyes too. Half the flesh on her face seems to have been torn off. I can barely stand to look at her now, and I sure as fuck will not be letting my cock anywhere near her anymore.

I let out a sigh but not for her. Not really. In a way my wife has done me a favour. The girl was getting clingy, needy. More than once I’d caught her sneaking into my room when I’d told her I wasn’t up for playing.

I pull the revolver from my pocket, click the safety off and place it against her forehead. She stills, her lip trembles and she opens her mouth to no doubt plead with me. Only, I’m done pissing around today. I’m done wasting my energy on this.

I pull the trigger, blowing her brains right out the back of her head and as she slams back into the floor, I get back to my feet and leave her there.

They can both rot here for all I care because I’ve bigger things to focus on. Far bigger things than a couple of useless maids.

I take in the broken bed, the flipped over cabinet. This was her, wasn’t it? My dear wife did all of this. But where the fuck were the maids? Did they let her go again, did they untie her? Or was it Rafferty, did my brother aid her escape?

I guess it doesn’t really matter. None of it does. By nightfall she’ll be back where she belongs and Rafferty, well, he’ll be finished.

I walk back out, head down the staircase, and keep moving through the house.

Ahead, I can see something hanging. I screw my eyes up trying to make out what it is, and then it hits me.

They’re paintings. My family’s paintings. Only the canvasses are ripped to shreds. Completely and utterly destroyed.

That fucking bitch.

Did she do that? Did she trash my house?

Maybe I’ll do the same to her, maybe I’ll take a nice sharp blade and slice it down her pretty face, see how she likes it.

The thought makes me smile and I flex my fingers, anticipating the moment I’ll wrap them around Scarlett’s delicate throat.

“Oh, Scarlett,” I call out, my voice echoing through the empty corridors. “You can’t hide forever, sweetheart.”

My footsteps echo as I make my way to her studio. If she thinks she can find sanctuary there, she’s sadly mistaken.

The door creaks open, and I’m greeted by her latest masterpiece – a self-portrait that dominates the centre of the room, not that she remembers painting it.

No, she was too high, too out of it to truly be aware of what she was doing that day.

But it had been a marvel to watch her, to see her at work.

The image is breathtaking, I’ll give her that.

She’s captured herself in a moment of exquisite agony, face contorted, eyes wide with terror. It’s beautiful.

I approach the painting, running my fingers along the canvas, feeling the tiny bumps where the oil has dried unevenly.

“You’ve always had a talent for capturing pain, darling. But you haven’t seen anything yet.” A smile spreads across my face as I imagine all the ways I’ll make that painted expression become reality.

Four more days. That’s all I have. All she has too.

I intend to make them last. Every second, every hour, I’m going to savour all of it.

The studio proves empty, but I’m not discouraged. This little game of cat and mouse only makes the hunt more exciting. I move methodically through the mansion, room by room.

The library has books scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers.

The conservatory has all the windows shattered, letting in the cool night air.

I continue on to the music room where my grandmother’s precious piano stands, only now it’s lying on its side, strings exposed like broken ribs. How the fuck she managed to do that I don’t know, but that of all things pisses me off.

Each new discovery of destruction makes my blood boil hotter. She’ll pay for every single piece she’s damaged.

A flash of movement ahead catches my eye. I freeze, listening intently. The house seems to groan around me, but beneath those familiar sounds, I hear something else, the whisper of fabric, a held breath.

“I saw you, Scarlett,” I purr, stalking forward. “Are you tired of fighting me yet? Ready to come back to your cage and submit?”

The destruction leads me down the west wing, where portraits of my ancestors have been systematically defaced.

Their judgmental eyes are now slash marks, accusatory fingers now hanging in strips.

She’s trying to hurt me through them, but she doesn’t understand, they mean nothing compared to what her death will grant me.

Something clatters in the darkness ahead, like a tiny clue that the house is laying at my feet.

I smile, knowing I’m getting closer.

Any minute now I will reach out my hand and when I pull it back, she’ll be there, caught, like a little mouse in a trap.

I take a silent step, then another, and quickly open the door.

For a second, I blink, wondering if I’m imagining this. If it’s an apparition before me and not my dear wife. Am I the one now mad and not her?

She shifts just enough to tell me she’s aware of my presence and when I clear my throat, she turns, meeting my hard gaze with those dazzling blue eyes.

They’re not glossy today. Not unfocused.

My lips curl into a sneer as I realise what it means.

She’s her. The real Scarlett. The fierce, conniving bitch and not the sickly spouse I’ve made of her.

She’s back then.

She’s present.

Will I have to grapple with her? Fight her, beat her into submission?

It fills me with an unnerving feeling looking at her, aware of all the history that has passed between us, history that right now she must be only too aware of. The air seems to crackle.

My eyes drop to stare at her stomach, to where my child was growing. There’s no hint, no sign that she was even pregnant, though I guess it’s far too early for that.

She killed my child.

It’s hard to contain the rage that suddenly boils inside me. I want to lash out, to grab her pretty little face and beat her senseless. I want to make her hurt, I want to make her suffer. I want her to be as devastated by this loss as I am.

But all in good time. I need her controlled. I need her subdued.

As I take a step, she takes one tiny one back, her eyes fixed on the syringe now in my hand.

“Wait,” She says quietly, almost demurely, as if she were a lady of fine breeding and not some craven witch.

“Wait for what?” I ask.

“I’m not going to fight you. I will do what you want. I will submit, or whatever the fuck it is you’re after. Just answer my questions first.”

There’s almost a hint of a plea to her voice. Almost.

I’m not so stupid to fall for this docile side. I narrow my eyes, trying to see the trick.

“You’ll submit?” I reply.

She inclines her head only as much is necessary.

“Fine,” I mutter, placing the needle on the side table where she can clearly see it. It’s still well within touching distance. I can play this game, pretend to give in and then I’ll simply overpower her if I must.

She watches me warily for a moment and then she moves to one of the leather armchairs, sitting in it with all the poise and grace of a viper.

“Ask then.” I say, waving my hand in a show of impatience. Like I have all day. I have things to plan, things to put in motion. She’s not the only hassle in my life.

She clenches her jaw, clearly biting back a snarky remark, and deciding to continue playing nice. “Are you going to kill me?” Her voice is so devoid of emotion, it’s almost chilling the way she speaks.

“Yes.”

She doesn’t react beyond meeting my gaze, as if she’s daring me to grab a blade and slice her pretty little throat this very second, and I realise then that I am itching to do it.

That for all the fondness I have for her pretty face and nice body, when it comes down to it, she’s not enough, she will never be enough. The fact she killed my child is proof of it.

“You killed my brother.” She states. “Did you play a part in my aunt’s death too?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

We both know the answer. Oh, Jane Heath was a smart woman. She was hard to track down after so many years on the run after her sister’s murder, but we got that bitch in the end.

How that must have upset Scarlett’s father, how he must have wailed when all his carefully laid plans fell apart and he realised they were still so easy to eliminate.

Shame the bastard isn’t alive to see his stolen kingdom turn to ashes.

I don’t doubt they’ll have a merry little reunion once Scarlett joins them all in the pits of hell.

“Why?” She says quietly. “My aunt was…”

“She was part of it. She helped your father steal millions from us.”

“It wasn’t yours to begin with.” She states. “You were stealing that money too. Embezzling it…”

I let out a laugh at her words. So she does know more than she’s let on. Perhaps the little minx knew it all.

For a moment I pause on that thought. If she did know, if she knew everything, then there’s a chance she’s still playing me now.

But that’s not possible. There’s no way she can outsmart me. No way she’d be stupid enough to continue, considering she knows full well what I have planned. How far I will go. What brutality I have done and will do to her before this ends.

“That money reverts to me.” She says. “In four days’ time.”

“Correct.”

“And that’s why I’m here.” Her eyes dart about, looking with scorn at the mansion that she should be honoured to even be in. “Because of some trust fund.”

“Trust fund?” I smirk. “Or my inheritance when my poor wife finally crumbles under the weight of her illness and in a moment of madness throws herself off those cliffs…?”

As if God himself is on my side, cheering me on, the waves make a dramatic crash, and that wall of water has her actually flinching.

I can see it, that moment, that beautiful final scene.

After everything we’ve been through, it will be an absolute pleasure to pick her up, toss her like a rag doll and watch as her beautiful body shatters on those rocks so far below.

And I’ll stand there, I’ll watch, as her blood trickles out, as it mingles with the water, as it stains the rocks, as it turns everything into a bright, livid scarlet red, just like her namesake.

She stares out, her face paling as if she can feel those broken bones already, and try as she might, I can see her wringing her fingers like she’s desperate to jump up and flee.

Silly bitch had her chance, she had her moment to escape. These last twenty-four hours she could have fled, could have gotten away, only she was too stupid or too cowardly to risk it.

“Anything else you wish to know?” I ask, almost amused now that her stoic little facade is crumbling.

She lets out a low breath, like she’s trying to shore up the last of her resolve, shakes her head, and then she scoops her hair to one side, presenting her neck for me as if she’s expecting me to kiss that delicate, vulnerable place.

I rise from my chair, taking the syringe and as I approach, I can see that blue vein in her neck beating faster and faster. Oh, she may act all courageous but just like always, her body betrays her.

I lean down, jabbing her quickly, half expecting some last-minute attempt to throw me off.

She stares up at me. Those fierce eyes glaring back.

And I can pinpoint it. I can see the exact moment that defiance wavers, it blurs, and she once more is rendered utterly powerless.

Her body slumps. Her hands unclench from the tight little fists she’s made.

“Sleep, wife.” I murmur, after pulling the syringe back out. “You have a busy few days ahead of you, and I want you at your absolute best.”