Page 68 of Her Name in Red

Riggs

The knife feels too right in my hand. Like it belongs there. Like I was meant to hold it against this piece of shit's throat.

I shouldn't be doing this. Some small, rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to walk away, to grab Maren and get the fuck out of here before I cross a line I can't uncross.

But that voice gets quieter every day. Especially when she's looking at me like that.

“Maren...” I whisper again, my voice rough even to my own ears.

Her hand slides over mine, cool and steady where mine is burning hot. The pressure of her fingers against my knuckles sends electricity up my arm, short-circuiting whatever's left of my common sense.

“You want to help,” she says again, and it's not a question.

I can't tear my eyes away from her face. The streetlight catches the edge of her profile, turning her into something otherworldly. Her eyes reflect nothing. Black pools I want to drown in.

“Yes.” The word tears from my throat.

The guy whimpers against the wall, but he might as well not exist anymore. There's only Maren. Only her hand on mine. Only the way she's looking at me like she can see every dark, twisted thing I've ever thought about.

And she doesn't look away.

“I know you do,” she murmurs, stepping closer until her body presses against my side. Her lips brush my ear, and I have to lock my knees to keep from buckling. “I know what you want, Riggs.”

The knife trembles against his throat. A thin line of blood trickles down his neck, disappearing into his collar. He's crying now, silent tears tracking down his face.

I should care. I should feel something—disgust, shame, regret.

All I feel is Maren's breath on my neck.

“Tell me,” I rasp.

Her finger traces the veins on the back of my hand, following them up to my wrist. “You want to be the monster.”

My breath catches. She's right. She's always fucking right.

“Not just any monster,” she continues, her voice hypnotic. “My monster.”

The blubbering frat fuck makes a strangled sound. “Please,” he begs. “Please, I won't tell anyone, just let me go?—”

“Shut up,” I snarl, pressing the knife harder without looking at him.

Maren's smile is slow, satisfied. “See how easy that is for you?” She shifts, her breasts pressing against my arm as she leans in closer. “How natural.”

Something snaps inside me.

The blade punctures his throat right where his larynx is, the way she showed me once on a medical diagram. “In case you ever need to silence someone quickly,” she'd said with that smile that haunts my dreams.

His eyes bulge. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out—just a wet, gargling noise as blood bubbles up around the blade. I pull it out, and he tries to scream, but all that emerges is a pathetic wheeze. His hands fly to his throat, blood seeping through his fingers as he slides down the wall.

I should be vomiting in the corner, overcome with regret and disgust at what I've done. I just ended a man's life. I just crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.

But as I watch the light fade from his eyes, all I feel is...power. Pure, intoxicating power surging through my veins like a drug.

I’ve only ever felt like this when I’m on the ice, but I don’t even know if that can even compare.

I'm alive. More alive than I've ever been.

The body crumples to the ground, twitching once, twice, then going still. Dead. He's dead because I killed him.