Chapter 7 #2
As I bounce around, Omar’s screams turn into gargles as he starts drowning in his own blood, and the girls release their own screams as they unleash their anger on him.
Soon enough, he stops making any noise, and eventually, the girls, panting and exhausted, stop their attack, their heartbreaking cries filling the air.
Freya turns to me then, her eyes glassy with her own tears, almost looking lost.
I wonder if she has a mum out there who has been frantically searching for her. I wonder if her mum would be proud of what she just did, or if she’d think her daughter a monster.
I can see by the way Freya is looking at me now that she’s seeking guidance. The type of guidance her mum might give.
I’m not her mum, but I am a mum, so hopefully, that’s enough to give her what she needs in this moment.
“What you just did won’t erase what has been done to you,” I say truthfully, hating that part of this.
“You will always live with that, I’m afraid.
And what you just did may haunt you. And if it does, I’m sorry for that.
But he’s gone now. He can never touch you again, and will never be able to hurt anyone else.
” I step up to Freya and ease the knife from her grip.
“And I promise each one of you that the brothers who orchestrated this will suffer an agonising torture before I kill them.”
“Thank you,” one of the other girls says, stepping up to Freya’s side.
“W-what do we do now?” another asks.
“Now, you all go and clean up. Find some other clothes to wear and return to the back room.”
The girls gasp, fear instantly overriding their judgement because all they want to do is be free, yet here I am telling them to return to the room they were locked in.
“Trust me, it’s not what you think. We don’t want the police to think you had anything to do with this.
” I gesture to Omar’s lifeless, bloodied body.
“So you clean up, and I’ll get rid of the evidence.
When we are all set, I’ll call the police, and they will come in and find you.
They will know who delivered the final blow to this sick fucker. And it won’t be any of you.”
“Thank you,” Freya whispers, her lower lip trembling, and I offer her a warm smile before the girls huddle together and leave the room.
Over the next hour, I bag up their blood-stained clothes and knives while they shower in Omar’s luxurious bathroom. They each slip on his shirts and when they return to the back room, I lock it back up, which is nothing more than a twist lock on the outside of the door.
Returning to Omar, I study him for a moment.
“I hope you were scared shitless, you sick fuck,” I snarl at his lifeless form. “I hope you felt remorse with each plunge of their knives.”
With a gloved finger, I glide it through the blood staining the floor and move to the wall to paint my art. I draw the crimson wings, and the halo above them, taking a step back to admire it.
It never gets old.
Then underneath, I write ‘check the back room.’
I don’t normally leave an extra message, but tonight, it’s warranted.
With that done, I move back to Omar, taking out my knife, and set to work to do the next part… slicing Omar’s head from his body.
Let me tell you. It’s not an easy task. By the time I’m done, I’ve worked up a sweat under all this latex, but it’s worth it to walk out of the house clutching what’s left of Omar’s stringy hair, leaving a dotted trail of blood behind me.
When I reach the front cast-iron fence, I lift Omar’s head and plunge it down hard on one of the spikes, impaling him there for all to see.
Stepping back, I grin, giving his cheek a pat.
“There you go, old boy. Right where you belong.”
I have the urge to take his head off the spike and put it through a meat grinder, but then it will take the bobbies too long to identify the body, and I want that knowledge to come out as soon as possible. I want the MacKenzie brothers to start pissing their pants.
Turning, I walk away from the fancy house. I don’t make the call to the police. I message Barrett instead, and he does it for me, and for the first time ever, I don’t flee the scene. I find myself hiding across the street in the shadows, watching the house.
I’m not sure why I stay. Maybe I just want to make sure the police treat the girls well and don’t blame them for Omar’s death. Or maybe I’m just watching over them to make sure those MacKenzie fucks don’t show up.
For whatever reason, I hide, peeling off my latex catsuit as I wait, shoving it in my bag.
It takes eighteen minutes for the police to arrive, their tyres squealing as they stop, and when they pile out of their cars, they hesitate, coming across Omar’s head.
It’s almost laughable the way they all take a step back, as if they’re about to walk into a house that is haunted by a poltergeist.
One finally makes a move, calling for detectives on his radio, and everything moves quickly after that.
Another unit turns up, and they talk strategy before entering the house, guns raised. A few minutes later, the first officer exits the house with two of the girls. The rest follow behind, clutching onto each other as the bobbies offer them bottles of water and some candy bars.
The detectives who have been working on each one of my kills over the last ten years arrive just before the paramedics, and after the girls are taken away in ambulances, I overhear the detectives’ comments.
“I don’t know who the Crimson Angel is, but I hope we never catch her,” he sighs, and the other detective nods.
“She’s doing what we wish we could to these sick fucks. They deserve everything she gives them.”
Well shit.
Pride fills me. Which is stupid, really, but it’s still there.
Yes, I may be a killer, and a fucking good one at that, but the people I kill are the worst of the worst. They deserve death, in the most painful way.
Tonight has been fun. I feel happy.
But also, horny.
The need to share this victory with someone is almost overwhelming, and I immediately think of Asher.
Why am I thinking of Asher?
I can never tell him about this. About what I do. I certainly can’t tell him how my body reacts to it. How it sets me alight from the inside out. Like my blood is too hot, like some sort of euphoric drug is pumping through my veins.
I’m so confused about Asher Scott. I shouldn’t want him like I do. I shouldn’t crave him.
Maybe I’m thinking about him now because I always get a little randy after a kill.
That has to be it.
Right?
When I know it’s safe to sneak away, I stick to the shadows, going the three blocks to get to my car, before driving to my private warehouse.
Barrett knows this place exists, but as far as I know, he doesn’t know where it is.
No one does. It has a small apartment on the top floor, which I use to shower and clean up, and down in the basement where my endless supply of latex suits are stored, I dump the girls’ clothes, the knives, and the bloodied latex catsuit into an acid drum, before returning home.
The house is dark when I step inside. Part of me is relieved that Asher must already be in bed, given that it’s around two in the morning. Avoiding him is the best option right now. The things he said to me in the salon earlier were… a lot.
I never expected him to say those things. It makes whatever this is seem less about sex and more about… love.
Which is absurd!
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I silently crack the fridge open and grab a bottle of water before tiptoeing to my dark bedroom. I glance up the staircase as I pass, noticing it dark up there too, and have to stop myself from going up there to check on Asher.
That’s a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
Stepping into my room, I silently click the door shut behind me, leaving the light off as I navigate the room with only the faint streetlight glowing through the window shutters to guide me.
At my bedside table, I flick on my lamp, and when I turn around, I gasp, a scream lodging in my throat at the shadowed figure sitting in the corner of my room.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Asher.” I press my hand to my chest, hoping to calm my frantic heart. “What are you doing?”
He shifts forward in the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees as he regards me.
Jesus, he’s only in a pair of boxers.
“Waiting for you.” His brows lift like it’s obvious what he’s doing.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” I drop my hand, my eyes locked with his as he studies me.
Don’t look at his bare chest.
Don’t look at the ink teasing a trail down his rippling abs.
Don’t look at the bulge in his boxers.
“And yet I am,” he responds, not in the least bit taken aback by my dismissal.
I sigh. “Asher, this has to stop.”
“Does it?” He tilts his head a little, his eyes travelling down my body, and hell, I can feel his eyes. It’s like they are searing a trail in their path.
“Yes, it does.” Shit. Why is my voice breathless?
“I don’t think so.” He smirks, meeting my eyes again.
Why does he have to be so enticing? This isn’t at all fair. I’m a lonely, nearly middle-aged lady that’s horny as hell from my fresh kill, and here he is, all young and virile and… and… hot.
Shit. He’s so hot.
I need to get out of this room, yet I can’t seem to make my feet move.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper again, not trusting my voice while I’m feeling so… on edge.
“Everything,” he says loudly, his tone nothing but sure, and it takes me a moment to form a response.
“That’s not an answer.”
Asher chuckles. “You can’t handle the details of what I want yet, Lily.”
What? What is he talking about?
I shake my head in confusion. “What does that mean?”
He stands then, taking the few steps to close the distance between us.
“It means you’re not ready for my kind of brand. But I’ll work you into it.”
Work me into it?
“You’re making no sense,” I say breathlessly as his fingers come up, hooking some strands of my hair and gliding them through his grasp.
“Don’t worry, Lil. It will make sense in the end.”
Lil.
He’s so close right now that I feel the heat of his body against mine, and I find myself staring at his lips, my tongue darting out to wet my own as they become a tempting lure.
I wonder what it would be like to feel them on mine. To taste them. To suck them into my mouth.
“Y-you need to leave.” I stutter like a fool, but those lips just kick up in a wicked grin, and he shakes his head.
“Why? I can see you really want me to stay.” He leans in close, breathing against my ear. “Perhaps you’d like me to fall to my knees. Bury my head between your thighs.” He pulls back to lock eyes with me again. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Heat flares deep in my core at his words, even as anger washes over me.
This can’t happen. How dare he come in here like this.
“Asher,” I snap, pointing to my door. “Leave my bedroom now.”
His brow quirks up. “Or what?”
“Or you can find yourself somewhere else to live.”
Both of his brows lift this time, my words seeming to do the trick as he takes a small step back.
“You don’t mean that,” he rasps, a frown tugging at his brows.
He doesn’t want to leave. And I don’t want him to leave either. But I need him to.
He does something to me. Something that is too close to the way the Crimson Angel makes me feel.
It’s a depraved kind of lust. The kind that borders between kink and pure filth.
It’s too depraved to ever reveal to another person.
The monster in me needs to stay hidden, and I fear this man before me has the power to completely undo me.
“I… I just need you to leave,” I breathe, pleadingly. “Please.”