Page 55

“Are you going to beg for your life, Katarina?” Paul asks, another demented smile rising. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Beg. If you do it just right, maybe I’ll listen.”

“You know me well enough to know I don’t beg. I take what I want. You taught me that.”

“I seem to remember you begging quite nicely on two particular occasions, bargaining for my life. Once to stop the bullet, the second to save me afterward.”

“You think that gives you power, don’t you?” I move closer. One step, two. All the way until the revolver presses against my forehead. “You think your life brings me to my knees? It doesn’t. Not anymore.”

“You’re a liar.” He steps back and sticks the barrel of the gun to his own chin. His eyes are desperate, his finger on the trigger. “You love me.”

My breath catches in my throat, every nerve ending in my body fighting the urge to wrest the gun away. To stop him from pointing it at himself. In this battle of wills, I don’t move a muscle.

“You love me,” he says again, whispering now.

“Love isn’t power, Paul,” I breathe. “You can’t weaponize my feelings and expect them to remain true. You can’t make me say it, you can’t make me feel it, and I can’t make you believe it. Not anymore. ”

In one smooth motion, Paul swings the gun away from his chin and points it at Matthew.

There’s zero thinking, zero rationality. I move.

“Don’t take another goddamn step, Katarina,” Paul thunders. “I’ll shoot him dead where he sits, make you watch the life leave his eyes. Tell me, is he the one you’ll beg for now? The one you’ll die on your knees for? Prove it. Drop.”

I was never very good at following directions. I don’t drop. I charge. Socking into Paul’s gut and batting the gun away as it fires. The bullet slams into the ceiling, raining dust and limestone upon us.

We struggle, tussling back and forth. The gun goes off twice more into the ceiling before I manage to release Paul’s grip. It falls to the floor with a clatter. I kick it to a far corner.

I’m going for the knife in my boot when two hands, Paul’s hands—once loving, now enraged—encircle my throat.

He grabs me by Cleopatra’s collar and lifts, raising me off my feet, slamming my back into the wall.

My head rings with the impact, air choked from my windpipe.

The bite of the golden collar digs in, cutting off circulation and air.

Paul’s face is inches from my own, his breath hot on my cheek as he chokes the life out of me. The boy I knew and loved is well and truly gone, completely over the edge. This man is going to kill me. There’s not a doubt in my mind.

My fingers scramble hopelessly against Paul’s, prying for purchase, but it’s useless.

Even now, my vision swims, beginning to tunnel.

I have only seconds, and the dagger in my boot is out of reach.

I stretch my fingers for Paul’s face, my right hand falling short to brush his neck. It’s almost loving, this caress…

But then I thumb Cleopatra’s serpentine ring. Right over my queen of diamonds tattoo. I thumb twice until the cobra head flips open. A tiny blade pops out of its mouth, right between the fangs .

My hand is there, curling into a tight fist alongside the smooth curve of his neck. Matthew told me once the carotid artery lies less than two inches beneath the skin.

I stab, deep and true. Twice, for good measure. The second strike spurts bright red blood. Arterial.

Paul releases me, and I fall to the ground, sputtering and clutching my throat. It’s wet with blood where my necklace sliced through skin. Within seconds, Paul collapses to the stone floor beside me. His exsanguination is quick and merciless. I don’t want—can’t bear—to watch, so I turn away.

“Kat!” Matthew cries in my periphery. He’s wiggling like an inchworm toward me. “Kat, untie me. Cut me free.”

“He’s beyond saving, Matthew,” I rasp, but I pull the dagger from my boot and cut him loose. Matthew doesn’t move toward Paul. He wraps his body around me, pressing his thundering heart directly to mine.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs.

“ We’re safe,” I answer, pulling back and running my hands down the length of his arms. “It’s over, and we’re safe.”

Bittersweet is the only way to describe the taste of the words as they leave my lips. Born of my own blood, sweat, and undoubtedly soon to come, tears. Tinged with sorrow, relief, hope…all of it and more.

Matthew and I arrive at the bayou loft together, but I leave him on a bench outside to wait. This is something I have to do alone.

My footsteps fall heavily on the stairs, each one echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

Louder and louder. I knock twice on the door, not trusting my voice, before swinging it open.

Tony sits at the table and looks up from two wristwatches in his hand.

Five more timepieces tick away on the surface in front of him .

I meet his eyes and open my mouth, but all that comes out is a hoarse squeak.

How will I ever find the words to tell them?

“Mierda, Kat!” Tony flies out of his seat, taking in the sight of my bloodstained hands and bruised neck. “Santo Dios! Abe? Abe, get out here.”

I fold myself into Tony’s arms as my legs give out. We sink into a puddle on the floor. Abe walks in as Tony’s hands trace over me, up and down. Spanish curses and exclamations fly from his lips in rapid succession.

“Kat?” Abe drops to the ground beside us, his eyes drawn to my injured neck. “What happened?”

And it’s the hardest tale I’ve ever had to tell—all harsh truth, no coddling lies—but somehow, I’m brave. I find the words. One sentence at a time.

When I reach the conclusion of the story, the horrible moment when Paul’s hands throttled my neck, that’s when my gravelly voice falters.

I turn away from Abe and Tony. I can’t look them in the eyes for this.

For this admission that the boy I loved my entire life turned on me. That he hurt me. And then…

And then I hurt him. Irreparably.

I feel violated and victimized, but also horribly, horribly ashamed. I rip the cobra ring from my bloody finger and throw it across the floor.

“I should have done more,” I rasp. “I don’t know how I could have stopped him…it all happened so fast. But I should have—”

“No, Kat. None of this is your fault.” Abe is there first, gripping my hand. His forgiveness, his love, comes quickly.

My eyes move, hesitantly, to Tony. He sinks back on his haunches, grief in his tear-filled eyes. Silence falls. I bite my lip, waiting for his pronouncement. His judgment.

“He’s gone?” Tony finally asks .

I swallow, sandpaper on sandpaper rubbing my throat raw. “He is. I…I’m so sorry.”

When Tony’s face crumples, when his hands move to cover his eyes, Abe and I are there to encircle him in our arms. Without any hesitation, Tony embraces me in return. He pulls me to his chest without recrimination, and I nearly cry out with relief.

There’s grief, yes. Terrible grief. But there’s also love, so much love, with simply no place to go.

He pours it into me, molten and raw. Into the marrow of my bones.

It settles in the fault lines of my shattered heart, and I shudder.

The weight is so very heavy, but with all three of us shouldering it together, we manage. One breath at a time.

The sun will set over Savannah this evening, and it will rise again at dawn. The streetcars will trundle over cobblestone lanes, and the hanging moss will blow silently in the breeze. The world will continue to turn as always, marching ever forward without pause.

And tonight, three wolves will howl at the moon, their fourth forever lost.