Page 58

Scarlett

“ D addy?”

My voice wavers, it sounds so small.

But I am not small. I am not weak.

Even after all they’ve done to me, they cannot break who I am, because I refuse to let these arseholes come out on top.

I force myself to stand. The cold air swirls round my naked skin and though I should feel shame at being exposed, I don’t. I’m a warrior. A fighter. I’m no longer the invalid wife, or the drugged-up victim I’ve pretended to be.

I draw in a deep breath, taking one step as the broken glass digs into my heel, but I don’t feel it.

I’m not numb anymore. I’m not empty. I’m not broken or any of those things.

I’m a goddamn avenging angel. I’m the stuff of nightmares. Of Horrors.

I bend down, my lips twisting into a crooked smile with the way my jaw is hanging, and I snatch at a jagged piece of glass that more resembles a blade than a piece of the window.

It slices through my hand as I hold it, blood trickling between the cool surface and my palm but my grip is firm, and I show no pain on my face.

Rage.

Pure unadulterated rage.

That’s what I’m going to unleash. That’s what these pitiful men are going to feel.

They think that because I’m a woman they could rape me, abuse me, use me as they like and then discard me like trash before collecting the fine price my body will fetch them.

Well tough fucking luck. This bitch doesn’t die so easily.

And it’s about time they learned that fact.

Without a second’s hesitation I bury the blade into Fraser’s throat, and I don’t know what I imagined, I don’t know how I anticipated it would feel, but it takes barely any effort. It feels like a knife sliding into warm butter.

His eyes widen in shock. He stumbles back a step, and then his blood starts spurting out. Covering him, covering me, covering everything.

It’s slick on my skin, hot too. It feels like holy water washing away all my transgressions. As if he’s baptizing me in violence, christening me with his death.

I stand over him, watching as he slowly dies.

His blood pools around him, dark and rich, staining the glossy ballroom floor.

I can’t tell if the tremor running through my limbs is from exertion or triumph, or maybe it’s both.

My chest heaves as I try to draw in air through my fractured jaw, each ragged inhale scraping against my nerves.

I can taste iron on my tongue, and it’s not all Fraser’s.

I shut my eyes, taking the chance to savour this beautiful moment.

This here, this moment is what we’ve been working for.

What me and my father planned so long ago.

Every hurt, every bit of abuse, every awful thing I have suffered, I have done so for this.

For my vengeance, for my family’s vengeance.

For my mother. For my brother. For everything they have done to us, to my family.

When I open my eyes again my vision swims, whether from the pounding in my head or the rush of blood in my ears, I can’t tell. The opulence around me blurs, chandeliers reduced to shimmering ghosts, polished floors slick with… with blood.

My blood.

His blood.

I tighten my grip on the shard of glass in my hand, the sharp edge biting into my palm, tethering me to this moment.

Everything hurts. Everything. My jaw hangs heavy and wrong, every attempt at drawing breath is like a knife through my ribs.

My humiliation sticks to me like a second skin, but even now, naked and battered, I refuse to cower.

Whatever is left of Scarlett Heath, she isn’t a victim anymore. I feel a heat burning in my chest, not just anger, but something brighter, sharper. Something righteous.

I shift my weight. Sydney is still standing close. Too close. Did he not see what I did to Fraser? Does he not see me as a threat? Or does he stupidly believe I’m too exhausted to fight anymore?

I fall to my knees, feigning defeat. But my hand snatches at a new weapon. A new instrument for my particular type of justice.

The shard of glass feels heavier, alive even, like it knows what I’m about to do.

My fingers tighten over its jagged edges, cutting me further, but I don’t care. Pain has become so common tonight that it barely registers anymore.

Sydney’s eyes widen as I bury it in his thigh. He tries to step back, but it’s too late. With all the anger, all the despair, all the fury that’s been festering inside me, I pull myself up, using that piece of buried glass like an anchor.

“This is for Rafe,” I spit before I drive a new piece right where his heart would be. That is, if he ever had one.

A sudden movement to my left snaps me back into the moment. Alexander. He lunges, his hands outstretched like claws aiming for my throat. But he doesn’t account for the blood coating my skin. His grip slips as soon as his fingers make contact, his own boots failing him on the slick marble.

I twist out of his reach, sliding and stumbling, but I’m free.

The room around us seems to erupt. Chaos blooms like a wildfire. My father’s voice booms, shouting commands, and I catch the glint of a gun in Rafe’s hand as he charges into the chaos, his face a mixture of rage and determination.

Somewhere in this chaos is Irene. Is she fighting too? Or has she slithered away like the snake she is? Either way, it doesn’t matter. I know my father will see to her. I know in my heart that all of this ends right here, tonight.

So let them fight. Let them burn this place to the ground. All I can focus on is the inferno inside me.

Instinct drives me toward Alexander, who’s already darting for the side entrance like the coward he is. Always running, always scheming.

But tonight, there’s no escape.

Not for him.

Not anymore.