Page 38 of Nightshades

My next victims are whispering to one another.

“What do we do? What do we do? Oh my god, he is a monster. He did this to me. He—he?—”

“Shhh, stop, he will hear us. You have to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You didn’t get shot in the leg by him spitting a fucking bullet at you!” Fireopal whispers harshly in panic.

I grin, loving that they find me important enough to talk about me in ‘private.’

How sweet.

I don’t do sweet.

Following the sound of her friend’s voice, I readjust my position, pointing my feet forward, and then take a small step to the left. Flexing my hand, I punch through the wall, wrap my hand around the back of his nape, and pull him through. Letting him go, so he slams into the wall.

Screams ring out, somehow harmonic and soul-easing.

“Don’t! Don’t! Please,” Fireopal begs through broken breaths and heavy tears. “I’ll do whatever you want. Do you…do you want money? I can get you all the money you want.” She crawls out of the hole in the wall, a belt tied around her thigh to slow the bleeding.

Her pants are soaked in red, and the color in her face is gone—pale and lifeless.

The man I ripped from the other side of the wall yells, charging at me with a sharp piece of wood that broke from the staircase. I don’t move. I don’t flinch. I stand my ground, tilting my head in curiosity.

He rams the sharp point through my chest and steps backwards, smiling in triumph.

“I got you, you sick son of a bitch,” he spits, literally, onto my boot. “Cops will be here any minute. You’re done. You’ll answer for all your crimes.”

Without saying a word, I wrap my hand around the spike, then tug it free from my chest—without blinking, without breaking eye contact—and his grin of accomplishment fades little by little.

Blood pours from my chest, the hole healing within seconds. My flesh stitches back together as if his attempt at murder didn’t happen.

That’s the thing about attempts—you always need to make sure you do it right the first time.

Twirling it in my hand quicker than he can possibly see, I launch the wooden spike in the air, and it lands in the middle of his chest, pinning him against a wall.

“No!” Fireopal cries, limping her way over to her friend, maybe even another mate.

I don’t care enough to find out.

He gurgles blood, red waterfalls spilling down his chin. Such a lovely sight to see. I couldn’t have painted a more picture-perfect moment. If this could be turned into a canvas, I would hang it above Lula’s fireplace so she could see the lengths I would go for her.

“Save him! Please. Save him!” Fireopal begs of me, going as far as dragging herself over to my feet. “I’ll do anything. He doesn’t deserve this. I’m who you want.”

“He doesn’t?” Gripping her by the roots of her hair, I drag her across the floor and toss her at his feet, where his blood is collecting. Clutching his chin, I force him to lift his head so his eyes can lock onto mine.

He’s barely breathing. He only has a few moments left before he dies.

His mind and body are so weak, he is easily locked into my influence. “Tell me, what’s the worst thing you have ever done? I’ll save your life if it isn’t bad.”

“Fuck you,” he spits.

I rip the spear from his chest, and he falls onto the floor, gasping for breath as the hole in his chest floods with blood. Gripping him by his shirt, I lift him to his feet that aren’t strong enough to hold him up and shove the wooden spike up his ass, through his body, and out of the top of his head.

“I do the fucking,” I growl.

His eyes move left and right before death finally takes him, gravity bringing his body to the ground.

“Why! Why would you do that? No. Bring him back. Please, bring him back,” she sobs, touching his face with shaky hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for shooting you. I’m sorry. Please.”