Page 87 of On Edge

I hum along to the heavy metal playing as I drag my victim, the man who made sure I wasn’t around to protect her, all the way to the container entrance.

In the middle of the container, dramatically lit with a work light, is a chair with restraints. It took a time to build and haul it out here, but the look on Alistair Godwin’s face, the banker who took everything we owned and gave it to Lovett, all tied up in a pretty fucking bow, is priceless.

I’m not going to interrogate him. He’s already dead. All this is just for effect because when I slice the bastard’s throat, I want him to see the real me.

“What is this? What are you doing?”he begs as I pull him toward the chair, crying like a baby, still trying to loosen the grip I’ve got on his scalp.

When he’s seated and strapped in, I bend down and murmur near his ear:

“It’s time for your final appointment, Alistair.”

It’s less an interrogation these days, more torture, as my thirst for blood has sharpened. And I really draw it out, enjoying the way every cut and every slice brings back my control.

Then I slit his throat.

Blood arcs, spraying across my chest, hands, and face.

And just like that, the tension breaks.

It always ends like this, an acute but quietreleaseas though I’ve opened a valve I didn’t know I was holding shut, bleeding out the rage and the rot that’s been living under my skin so long.And then a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. It feels so alien and unnatural that I let out a soft chuckle. Goddam, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to laugh.

As I close my eyes and listen to the crash of the music, I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, and the slow and steady beat of my own damn heart.

It’s jarring, reminding me I’m still a part of this world even though I do everything I can to forget.

One day, I’ll silencethattoo.

But not today.

I’ve got a long way to go before I can rest.

At least, I’m staying away from her. I almost killed her in the lake. I promised myself that if I took it too far, I would stay away. She’s not Nell. She’s not the person I thought she was. She’s not manipulating me for her father.

Granted, she did have a vial of poison on her, but even if her father gave that to her, she wouldn’t use it. I see her now. Nell wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. And neither would Sage. She’s too oblivious, completely and utterly helpless at the best of times, like one of those doe-eyed fawns stumbling through the woods. She has no idea what she’s doing. I don’t even care that she stole one of my razors.

Another dry laugh escapes me, lighter and unexpected.

Mercy. Let her keep it. She can’t hurt me with my own fucking razor, and I’d rather she were armed.

I clamp my mouth down and get back to work, methodically, clearing the blood away. Ironically, I have a contract with Lovett for this kind of disposal under a shell company that would never trace back to me. He has no idea who I am, which makes it beautifully fitting.

It satisfies some dark part of my soul. The man who arranged my family’s murder gets to clean up the mess I make of his friends through that vile pet food company of his.

Sage doesn’t know how much of a twisted fuck her father is. Christ, she’s an absolute nightmare. I’ll give her that.

When I get outside, there’s a missed call from Mundel. He answers on the tenth ring.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do about this…wedding.”

And just like that, the annoyance is back. “Plan for it, like I asked.”

“I’m an ex-con, not an event planner.”

“Then hire one.” My tone is irritated, and I don’t bother to hide it.

“Are you really going through with it?”

“A deal is a deal. I always keep my word.”