Chapter 32 #2
His hands are purple and swollen from thrashing against the tight restraints, and it’s evident by the pure terror in his eyes that he’s realizing he can’t fight this.
He’s panting after his desperate attempts at escape and at kicking me, but his wide body prohibits him from bending easily enough to land a kick from where I stand at the side of the bed.
I pause, my chest heaving from the exertion and the adrenaline flooding my veins.
The sound of his whining and pleading is grating on my nerves, and as much as I’d love to torture him all night, a bigger part of me wants to get this over with. Every second I spend in this room is an unnecessary risk at this point, and I know Ambrose will be wondering where I am.
I raise the knife again with calm certainty.
My eyes lock on his face, and fear contorts his features into a caricature of his normal self.
With a steady hand, I bring the knife down, impaling his stomach.
His body convulses beneath me, and I push harder until the hilt hits his skin, feeling the blade slice through muscle and flesh.
His screams fill the air, like sweet music to my ears, and I yank it out before stabbing him again.
His already pale skin is ashen and sallow with blood loss, and with one final, savage lunge, I plunge the knife into his chest, right where I’d expect his heart to be. He gasps, his chest rattling with the weak breath, until his breathing stops a few seconds later and he slumps against the bed.
He’s dead.
The remaining life force of the senator floods the stone that’s hanging against my chest, though I surprise myself by caring less about the number of years I’ve gained for the bargain and more about the cruel delight of killing another man who deserved it.
The man who once held so much authority is now nothing more than a bloody heap on the hotel bed.
Taking the power away from the men who abuse it is intoxicating, an addiction I fear will only grow now that I’ve tasted the sweet satisfaction of vengeance.
I yank my knife from his chest then wipe it down with the bedsheet before sheathing it and putting it back into my purse.
I’m still breathing hard when the sound of the suite door unlocking echoes like a gunshot in the silence.
The heavy wooden door swings open, and a woman appears in my line of sight, directly across the living room.
From where the door is, she can see directly into the bedroom behind me, and there’s nowhere for me to run.
I recognize her immediately from the pictures. Senator Abbott’s wife.
Fuck.
Frozen, I simply stand there, expecting her to scream, run, or call the police, but she simply takes in the scene with a blank expression, surveying me as I stand barefoot in the doorway of her husband’s hotel room while he lies dead on the bed and covered in blood behind me.
Her expression remains stoic when she asks, “Is he dead?”
I nod. No point in lying, though I am prepared to run or fight if necessary. I don’t want to kill this woman, but I will if I need to.
As if reading my mind, she asks, “Are you going to kill me too?”
I shake my head. “Not unless I have to, and I really don’t want to.
” I did my research into her as well, and she wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, hence my killing him in his hotel room.
But one thing I noticed was her total silence when it came to her husband’s policies, and I’m inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, because I know what it’s like to be married to a powerful man who makes it impossible to leave or speak up.
She’s silent for a moment, nods, then says with resolve, “Okay. I only have a few minutes before I’d realistically need to call the police, so go now. I’ll call them in five minutes, so get somewhere safe.”
“You’re letting me leave?”
“Yes. I don’t know who you are or why you killed him, but he deserved it regardless. I just don’t want to be a suspect, so you need to go fast. Keep your head down and try to keep your face out of the cameras.”
“Cameras have been taken care of,” I say. Hopefully Ambrose was able to follow through on his portion of the job.
She nods. “Then go, and I’ll tell them it was a large man who was fleeing the room.”
“Thank you.” I collect my purse and heels, awkwardly slipping past the woman whose husband I just murdered. She has the same hollowness in her eyes that used to plague me. I can’t help but feel like I’ve done her a favor.
I make a beeline for the stairs, and as soon as I’m inside it, I race down the steps two at a time.
When I reach the ground floor, I pause in the stairwell to slip my heels on, take a deep breath, channel the necklace’s powers, then casually stride into the lobby where Ambrose is waiting on a couch. Thank God my dress is black.
I acknowledge him with a subtle nod and a weighted glance, not pausing in my stride toward the automatic sliding doors at the entrance.
He follows, and we make our way stealthily into the night.