Page 8
Story: Rogue (Assassin’s Magic #7)
The knife was already in her hand. She whirled to face him, and he dropped to the floor.
Then he called the police, telling them that his wife was attacking him and he needed help.
I see the bruises and the healed bones across her body.
I see the bones that are still healing. All the wounds that he aimed at parts of her body that can be covered by her clothing.
But, oh, that skirt was too short, and there was a bruise on her thigh above her knee, and damn, it must have been visible…
I see all of this within a heartbeat; the knowledge flows into my mind with pure clarity.
As I step through the door, the man’s focus switches to me, and a terrified expression floods his face. “Help me! She’s crazy!”
I tilt my head and croon sweetly, “Oh, I’ll help you.”
His brow furrows, his gaze rapidly taking in my appearance from the top of my head and my loose hair, which is probably in a more fucking crazy state than his wife’s, to the whip at my waist and all the way down my black-clad body to my bare feet.
“You aren’t the police,” he snarls. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
It takes me a mere two seconds to dart into the space between him and the woman. “What is your name?”
The man jolts to his feet, his lips twisting. “I’m not telling you. You’d better get out of my house right now, bitch.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I say, inclining my head toward the woman without taking my eyes off the man. “What is your name?”
I’m not concerned for my own safety. My snakes are ready to attack if I need them, and my power of compulsion will subdue this man within a heartbeat. But for once, we’re here in time, and I’m not going to let anything happen to this woman.
“Amanda,” she whispers, her voice unsteady, her throat constricted with fear. Her body will go into shock if I don’t quickly get her warmth and comfort.
“Amanda, I need you to listen to me carefully and do exactly as I say. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she says, even though I can tell she’s barely holding on. She is shattered, every part of her sense of self and her identity stripped and mutilated until she lives every waking moment in a state of alertness and fear.
“Put down the knife, Amanda,” I say calmly, still watching the man, who looks at me as if I’m insane, but I really don’t give a fuck what he thinks.
“Go to whichever room in this house has a blanket and pull it over yourself. All the way over yourself, okay? Curl up if you have to. And then I want you to bring to mind the happiest memory you have…” I quickly assess her thoughts.
“The day you got your degree, and your whole life was ahead of you. Hold on to that day and replay it over and over until the sun comes up. Then it will be a new day, and all of this will be over.”
There’s no answer behind me, but I hear her shuddering breaths and the sound of her tears falling down her cheeks.
“Can you do that for me?” I ask her.
The quietest, most strangled whisper comes back to me. “Yes.”
There’s a clatter as she puts the knife onto the bench, but her hand’s shaking so much that it lands at the edge of the sink and slides into it with a rattle.
I’m not worried about the knife. We’ll wipe down the scene before we leave, and my sisters will use their power of compulsion to ensure the police turn away in the meantime.
The woman stumbles from the kitchen.
I don’t wait for her to leave, my own power of compulsion filling the air with the scent of wildflowers. I would have used it on Amanda, too, if I needed her to move faster, but this way, she would have a small sense of the control that she desperately needs.
“You,” I whisper to the man, leaning toward him, “belong to me now.”
He throws curses at me, calling me all sorts of names as he lunges toward me, his right hand reaching for my hair the same way he grabbed his wife.
I let him. In fact, I welcome the wrap of his hand against my scalp. I’m built to combat these violent tendencies, so basic and enduring within the minds of attackers that Furies have the perfect weapons against them.
I barely feel the tug on my scalp before my black snake sinks her fangs into his hand.
“Why is it,” I muse, “that assholes like to grab women by their hair?”
He cries out in alarm, trying to withdraw his hand, but his eyes are already flooding with black poison. He stumbles back a step before dropping to the floor, his body convulsing.
My poison is beyond painful. Even more so because the agony of my own creation is still fresh within my memories, making my need for vengeance even more intense.
I sense that, to this man, the pain of my poison feels like his bones are splitting along their lengths, separating without completely breaking apart, extending the misery without reprieve.
I also feel his rage.
He wants to cut me. Punch me. Close his fist around my throat. Stop my voice. Stop my power. Control me.
He has no remorse. Only a belief in his right to bend a woman’s body to his will.
I’ve already cataloged every wound he gave Amanda, and now I will deliver them back to him, one by one.
I pull out my whip and let its metal tips hit the floor. Until the sun comes up, he will experience every pain he inflicted on her.
The assassins may kill quickly and efficiently, but that is not my purpose.
That is not what I’m built for.
I am a Fury.
I am built for vengeance.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8 (Reading here)
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
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- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46