Page 25 of Kill for a Kiss

I glance at my phone. No update yet. But I need to move to think clearly. My eyes land toward a forgotten corner of the estate. The shed deep in the vineyard, a place I once hid from Clo’s twisted lessons. Memories flash sharp, unwelcome, of me holding my breath, staying quiet, always hoping to evade her notice, to dodge a red-bottomed heel or the heated spike of a candlestick.

I shove the memories away. That was then. This is now. But Clo’s games haven’t changed. She’s still the puppeteer, still pulling strings and making me feel like I’m always one step behind.

Not this time. Not anymore.

My phone buzzes. I pick up. “Talk.”

The contact chuckles. “Someone’s impatient.”

“Do you have something or not?”

“A name. Nothing else. Whoever Clo hired is a ghost. Barely any trace, only a single alias.Lix.”

“Where can I find them?”

“That’s the thing. No one knows, except the queen.”

Frustration coils tight in my chest. I breathe out slowly, gripping the phone hard. “Everyone’s somewhere.”

“You weren’t,” the contact replies dryly, “for years.”

I’m silent as my scowl deepens.

Then cautiously, the contact speaks. “I’ll keep digging, rookie.”

The line goes dead. I stand still for a moment, phone clenchedtight, jaw locked. I should be thinking clearly, planning my next move. But my mind slips to Elle. The fear in her eyes. Was it fear ofmeat the end? Fear of what I’ve done? Would she always look at me like that?Fuck. The thought burns more than it should.

I exhale sharply, forcing it down. Not now. I can’t afford any more distractions. I have a name. I have direction. And I’m sure as hell done playing Clo’s game, sneaking around my childhood nightmare, slipping into shadows, and trying to outwit her silently. She expects it. She planned for it.

So fuck stealth. Fuck playing by the usual rules. It’s time to make a mess, one even Clo can’t ignore.

I straighten, stretching my shoulders back. If Clo thinks she’s in control, I’ll rip that illusion apart, loudly and destructively. Heading swiftly back to my Valkyrie, hidden in the shadows, I pop the trunk and grab what I need. A crowbar. A high-powered drill. A fiber optic scope. Tools for aggressive entry, if necessary. Because if I can’t go through her door, I’ll tear my way beneath it. And once I’m done here, I’m never coming back, unless it’s to leave with Elle.

The mansion’s old foundation holds secrets, and I know exactly where it’s weakest. Clo’s study sits right above a room collecting dust. One good hit should do it.

Moving swiftly and unseen, I slip into that abandoned room. My fingers find the fragile spot in the ceiling beams. Wedging the crowbar quietly in, I apply steady pressure until wood splinters, giving way just enough.

The drill hums quietly, dust trickling down my hands as I carve an opening. One sharp crack, and the space widens, enough to pull myself through.

I slip into the tight space between floors, breath tight in my chest as I push forward. One last barrier’s left, a thin panel beneath her desk. A few controlled strikes, and it gives.

I lift myself up silently into Clo’s study, straightening to stand up and look around. The room’s all wrong. There used to be dark wood and old books. Now it’s sterile, more clinical. And there are mirrors, too many fucking mirrors, like Clo’s vanity is being reflected everywhere.

My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath my skin. I’m not here to break mirrors. I’m here for Elle.

I rip open drawers, scatter papers, no longer caring about subtlety. Clo can see the mess. Hell, I want her to. Documents blur past, useless details, until one folder catches my eye. Thick and hidden, but not to my trained eye. The file’s marked clearly with the letterL.

My pulse spikes, breath catching as I flip it open. The first thing in there is an old photo of Elle. A face that’s lived inside my head. Then there are notes, so many damn notes. My grip tightens as my eyes scan the words.

What the fuck has Clo done to her?

6

Sterling

I don’t realize my hands are shaking until the paper crumples in my hands.

The words blur together. Fragments of sentences hit me, jagged and sharp. Each word’s worse than the last. Every single letter tears through me.