Page 10 of From Hell

But Mr. Uptight is in control tonight. He calls the shots. He may not know I’m here, watching and stalking her too. But he doesn’t have to be aware to keep me on a leash. Sometimes, I creep around the edges of his vision, sliding into shadows he can’t comprehend, but I always fall in line. What other choice do I have?

Her eyes connect with mine across the murky landscape.Those eyes.I’ve seen that fear before, tasted it with my blade. A smile slices across my lips. For a second, I can feel the rain on my skin and smell the musty earth beneath my feet. I take a step toward her just as she stumbles toward me like a marionette on a string.

But then I stop, unable to reach across the darkness and snuff her out. His orders are absolute. His control over me is as strong as iron. Frustration brews, a ball of fury in the pit of my stomach.

Fucking why?

But I know why. Mr. Uptight is going to have to clean up the mess she made. Let him. I fucking hate it. Why bother? The beauty is in the destruction of perfection and the delightful way my victim’s flesh parts, like a symphony of carnage. At least I get to be the bloody conductor when he’s too uptight to let go.

Soon, it’ll be my turn to take control.

And when I do…

She’ll be my next victim.

5

LAINE

His black eyes suddenly, intrusively, connect with mine, and the feeling of being truly and utterly seen slinks through me and down my spine. The longer I stare, the hotter I become and the darker his gaze gets—two bottomless pits swirling with something evil, unfathomable.

It taints and twists his aura, making my skin break out into goosebumps and my mouth turn dry. Adrenaline sizzles in a rush underneath my skin.

I can’t look away…

Panting, I wake up, tangled in sheets.

There’s a tepid glass of water beside the bed, so I sip it slowly while the rain outside thunders on my thatched roof, and the nightmare melts away.

Another twisted dream about my would-be killer. This time, it was brought on by the uneasy feeling of being watched tonight. It seemed like someone was there, standing in the shadows.

Despite the weather, I heave open my window, careful not to disturb the spider’s web outside it. Frigid air, laden with moisture, hits me in the face, plastering my hair to my forehead as I look out. Street lamps give the wet streets a hazy glow. The jagged wound on my arm throbs with the effort of opening the window. Glancing down at it, I see that the bandage I wrapped around it before I went to bed is soaked through, bright red blooming across the fabric. I’m going to need painkillers and stitches, in that order.

I’m deathly pale when I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror before splashing cold water on my face. I look like a ghost. There aren’t enough strong painkillers left or anything to help me sleep in the medicine cabinet hidden behind the mirror, so I’m going to have to get some more.

I grit my teeth with a sigh.

At least I’m already awake.

* * *

Knowingme and my sporadic visits, the night receptionist waves me into the private hospital where my mother works. After that, I’m in luck. She’s not in her office at this ungodly hour, so it’s easy to let myself in using the spare keys I swiped a few months ago and help myself to whatever medication I need.

The locked drawer in her desk is the first place I look. I keep the lights off, so I’m unable to immediately see what the bottles rattling around contain as I drag it open. In the dimness of the exterior light shining through the door window, after squinting and frowning at the various labels, I can see they’re not what she takes to help her sleep. From my limited knowledge, these are stronger… more addictive.

I should speak to her about it, but my mother’s been my private, personal drugstore since I was a teenager. She likes to pop pills for everything, leaving blister packs around the house or in her office. It’s an unspoken rule that we don’t discuss them—my nightmares and her addictions.

I pocket both bottles, glancing up at the door to ensure no one is there. The hallways furthest away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital are usually empty.

Usually, but not this time.

Someone—a man, I realize—is staring at me through the glass. My heart plummets in my chest, threatening to drop out of the bottom of it. All I see is a flash of a handsome face and a pair of dark, angry eyes before he’s gone, leaving me to wonder whether he saw me searching through my mom’s drawer or if I imagined it.

He can’t have seen what I did? I was angled away from him, and the lights were off.

Right?

I don’t have long to ponder because the door opens, and the lights beam on. I blink at the man who glared at me through the door’s window as he strolls into the office like he owns it. I have a few seconds to compose myself before shifting my gaze to meet his. The first thing that strikes me is his soul-sucking eyes, then his white lab coat swishing open, revealing an expensive-looking black shirt and dark-blue jeans underneath. A doctor, then.