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Angel of Death

Hypothetical Question: If you had to make a fake alibi for yourself right now, what would it be?

Carina

It's been weeks since I've seen Nate, weeks since the charged electric moment we shared after dealing with Declan.

The memory flickers through me, tightening something low in my stomach. He trusted me enough to let me into his world. Showed me his hideout. His secret.

That trust felt intimate. And I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Just remembering how his muscles flexed as he carved Declan apart—controlled power, precision, that heat in his eyes when he looked at me afterwards—sends a shiver through me. My body reacts, my core tightening.

It's twisted.

I know it's twisted.

But I don't care.

Today, Robert Dealer will learn what it means to be powerless.

I've been studying his routines for two months. I know where he goes and who he sees. Today, he'll be at his private estate in the West Country. His usual security won't be there. He thinks no one knows about this house.

His arrogance will be his downfall.

This morning, I sent an anonymous tip to the media. No victim names—just enough evidence to burn him to the ground. The story should break any second now.

I wait in the shadows, hidden, as his world implodes.

A news alert pings from his phone. He flicks on the TV.

"Breaking news: Robert Dealer, millionaire philanthropist, is the mastermind behind a human trafficking ring, exploiting young women for years under the guise of charity work. Authorities are working to apprehend him, but the damage to his reputation and fortune may already be irreversible."

The screen flashes with his smug face at charity events, juxtaposed with blurred images of his victims.

I smile.

"Fuck. Fuck!" Robert stumbles back, panic lacing his voice.

He fumbles with his phone, calling his contacts. No one answers, mostly because I switched every number to fake ones.

Not that it would matter.

No one is coming to save him.

I let him spiral. Let him scramble for passports and pack wads of cash into a duffel.

It's almost time.

Watching him pack, my mind drifts to the countless times I watched him prepare for his "business trips." Trips that ended with another girl's life being destroyed. The bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.

This isn't about my trauma. It's about justice.

The moment he lunges for the door, I step out.

He freezes.

His gaze skims over me—assessing, appraising. And then, he smirks.

"Darlin', I don't remember calling for anyone." His voice is low and slick. His green eyes glaze with lust. "I guess I have time for a quickie."

He unzips his jeans with practised ease.

Does he—? Revulsion roils in my stomach. But I keep my face neutral.

Not disgusted.

Not yet.

He believes I'm here to fuck him.

It should trigger me. It should send me spiralling back into that terrified fifteen-year-old girl.

Instead, it fuels my rage.

He hasn't changed.

But I have.

And tonight?

Tonight, Robert Dealer dies.

"What are you waiting for?" Robert asks, standing fully naked in the middle of his grand entrance hall.

What kind of man gets completely undressed for a 'quickie'?

I suppress the scowl, threatening to break free, keeping my voice flat. "I'm waiting for you to realise just how stupid you are."

He blinks, thrown off by my tone. "Excuse me?"

His smirk falters.

I take a slow, deliberate step forward. "Robert, Robert, Robert…" I cluck my tongue, shaking my head in mock sympathy. "It's a shame you don't remember me. But I remember you."

Confusion flickers across his face. Then wariness.

"What is this?" he growls, the confidence in his voice already fading.

I let the silence stretch, let the tension coil between us like a predator waiting to strike.

Then, I tilt my head and smile. "This? This is revenge."

I lunge before he can react, slamming into him with enough force to send his naked body sprawling onto the cold marble floor.

A grunt of pain rips from his throat as I use his vulnerability against him, pressing my knee into his chest. Before he can even think about fighting back, I grab his balls and squeeze—hard.

His howl echoes through the vast room, reverberating against the high ceilings.

He curls in on himself, gasping, and I use the moment to yank out the cable ties from my pocket, binding his wrists in a swift, practised motion. He struggles, but I already have the upper hand.

Dragging him up by the ties, I pull him behind me, scanning the space for the perfect spot.

Ah.

The chair.

Positioned perfectly in the centre of the dining room—a throne-turned prison.

I shove him down into the seat, ignoring his groans of pain, and pull the rope tighter around his wrists. Nate taught me this technique - how to ensure no escape while avoiding loss of circulation that might make him pass out too soon. The thought of Nate makes my chest tighten, but I shove it aside.

Focus, Carina.

I step back and survey my work. He's trapped. Helpless.

But we're not done yet.

Turning on my heel, I head back to the hallway where I left my bag, grabbing my final preparations: a voice modulator, coverall, and the pink balaclava.

The balaclava was Nate's idea—a touch of my signature style, even in the darkness.

He understands me in ways that should be terrifying.

Instead, it feels like I've found a missing piece of myself.

Pulling the balaclava down over my face, I catch my reflection in the glass of an antique display cabinet. The pink fabric is a jarring contrast against the room's opulence—the smell of beeswax and old money, the chandeliers scattering fractured light over polished mahogany.

This place reeks of power. Of control.

Tonight, it all crumbles.

I set up the camera, adjusting the angle to frame Robert perfectly.

The irony isn't lost on me. How many times has he recorded his victims? How many times has he documented their fear for his twisted pleasure? Now, the lens will capture his terror. His confession. His final moments.

Poetic justice.

He whimpers, his voice raw with fear.

"You're going to confess," I demand, my voice deepened and distorted through the modulator. "Every crime. Every victim. I want to hear you say it. All of it."

Robert's jaw tightens. A flicker of defiance lights up in his eyes.

"Why would I do that?" he spits, trying to sound strong, but the tremor in his body betrays him.

I pull out my knife, letting the blade catch the light.

"Because, Robert," I purr, though the voice modulator steals the smoothness of my tone, "I think you'll prefer the ending if you do."

The flicker of defiance wavers. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. His eyes dart around, searching for an escape that doesn't exist.

He's trapped.

And soon, he'll be begging.

Not that I plan to give him any mercy.

Nate

Carina is a vision.

An angel of death.

I shouldn't be surprised that she got to Robert first. If it were anyone else, I wouldn't tolerate sharing the fun. But watching her work—watching her enact her revenge—fuck, it's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Robert just spilled all his secrets for the camera—after some convincing, which involved removing his pinky finger. That was a nice touch.

Carina clicks off the camera without hesitation, stalking back toward him with fluid and predatory movements that make my pulse spike. The balaclava is gone now, discarded like the last remnants of her restraint. She doesn't bother to hide her face as she steps closer, allowing him to see exactly who's here to end him.

She peels off the coveralls, revealing the second skin beneath—leggings that hug every dangerous curve and a pink top so tight it might be sinful.

My fingers flex at my sides, my restraint fraying at the edges.

Carina is intoxicating.

She doesn't just command the room—she owns it.

Her eyes flick to mine for a fraction of a second, and I swear I see a flush creep up her throat. My cock twitches, rock-hard in my jeans, straining against the denim as I watch her revel in her power.

She enjoys it.

She thrives on it.

And it's making me lose my fucking mind.

Robert trembles now, his broken body sagging, his pleading eyes locked onto Carina. And she—she doesn't flinch. She doesn't hesitate.

Her lips curl into a sneer, pure disdain lacing her features.

A glint in her eyes—a hunger—makes my chest tighten. She's not just seeking justice. She's feeling this. Absorbing it. Letting the power seep into her skin and settle deep inside her bones.

The air between us thickens, charged with something dark and all-consuming that I can't quite name.

And I fucking want it.

I shift, adjusting the painful strain in my jeans as she steps closer to Robert, curling her fingers around the knife again. I feel it deep in my gut—the tension, the need—twisting tighter with every second.

I should be the one in control.

I should be the one ending Robert's life.

But all I can do is watch her, my breath shallow, my body thrumming with the raw, unfiltered craving coursing through my veins.

Carina lifts the knife.

Robert gasps.

And then—

Silence.

The weight of his final breath lingers in the air, curling around us like smoke.

She turns to me, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, the adrenaline rush still visible in her eyes. The heat between us pulses like a living thing, stretching taut, ready to snap.

"Nicely done, my Queen," I call out, stepping toward her.

She meets my gaze, and I swear to God, something shifts.

Something heavy. Something irreversible.

She's fire and fury and something I can't fucking resist.

I reach out, my fingers ghosting along the smooth skin of her arm, heat radiating between us like an unspoken promise. A silent dare.

She doesn't pull away.

Her breath hitches, barely audible, but I hear it.

I trail my touch lower, slow, deliberate, taking my time until I reach her hand, her fingers still curled around the knife's handle.

I slide it from her grasp, holding it between us.

My voice drops to a whisper.

"You're perfect."

"Nate…" she breathes, her body tilting toward mine—instinct, surrender, something in between.

She's daring me to take what I want.

And fuck, do I want her.

"I want you so fucking much," I growl, the need clawing at my insides, a demanding, insatiable need for her . My cock throbs painfully at the sight of her—the blood splattered across her cheek, the satisfaction still lingering in her expression.

Her lips part, and when she speaks, it's a breathy, aching moan. "Then have me."

That's all it takes.

I crush my mouth to hers, swallowing the last traces of restraint.

There's nothing gentle about it—we're devouring each other, consuming, unravelling. My tongue slides against the seam of her lips, demanding entry, and when she parts them, I take what's mine.

Her taste—fuck. It wrecks me.

Carina moans into my mouth, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me impossibly close. It's like we're both trying to crawl inside each other and fuse into something singular, something primal.

My hands find her hips, dragging her against me, forcing her to feel the thick, aching length pressing against her stomach. She gasps as the cool metal of the knife grazes the exposed sliver of skin between her top and leggings.

Her eyes snap to mine—molten, daring.

I grin. Slowly, I trail the blunt edge of the blade up her body, dragging it higher, feeling the way her breath catches. I keep going, letting it rest just above the curve of her breast, where her top dips low, teasing me with the promise of more.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, a silent invitation.

"I could kill you right now, Princess," I murmur, my voice thick with something dangerous. "You let me willingly disarm you."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away.

Instead, she leans in—pressing into the blade, testing me, tempting me.

Fuck.

I jerk the knife back, not because I'm afraid of hurting her—but because the idea of seeing her blood makes something inside me recoil.

She does it again. A taunt.

I throw the knife to the floor.

The smirk that spreads across her face is pure delight, a silent declaration of victory.

"You won't hurt me," she whispers.

My restraint shatters.

I drag her against me, crushing my mouth to hers, kissing her like I'm drowning, and she's the only thing keeping me afloat.

"Princess," I growl between kisses, my lips bruising against hers. "I need you. Right now."

"Yes," she gasps. "Please."

I back her against the wall, pressing every inch of my body into her, trapping her there like I'm terrified she'll disappear.

Her breathing is erratic, matching my own, filling the space between us with something hot, desperate, electric.

I grip her chin, tilting her face up to mine.

And fuck—her eyes. Blown-wide pupils, dark with hunger, need—mine.

"Are you wet for me, baby?" I rasp.

The whimper that escapes her throat is enough to make my cock throb painfully.

I don't wait for her answer.

My hand slips beneath the waistband of her leggings, fingers gliding down, teasing, exploring where she's softest, hottest, most fucking addictive.

"Nate," she gasps, her voice raw with need.

I groan. She's soaked.

So fucking wet that my fingers slide through her heat with devastating ease.

My mouth crashes back to hers as I circle her clit, teasing, tormenting, driving her higher before plunging two fingers deep inside her. Her body clenches around me—pulsing, perfect.

I imagine it's my cock filling her instead, her tight walls squeezing me, dragging me under, and I nearly lose it from the thought alone.

"Nate… please," she moans, her voice wrecked, needy.

I keep working on her, my thumb rolling over her swollen bud, my fingers curling, stroking—a relentless rhythm.

She shudders violently, her release slamming into her like a fucking tidal wave. Her thighs tremble, her body tensing, her pussy gripping my fingers like she never wants to let go.

I won't stop.

Not until I've wrung every last second of pleasure from her, not until she's boneless against me, her breath heavy, her body limp with ecstasy. I work her through her orgasm like I'm a one-man orchestra determined to nail the grand finale.

When her eyes finally flutter open, she looks at me like I just single-handedly ended world hunger.