Chapter Sixteen #3
"You worthless fucking cunt," he snarls, straddling her chest, his knees pinning her arms to her sides.
My mother's eyes widen in terror as she realizes what's happening.
Her mouth opens in a silent scream, but the drugs and alcohol have made her reactions too slow.
Before she can make a sound, Silas presses the cushion over her face with both hands.
His normally perfect hair falls across his forehead as he bears down with his full weight.
I stay seated at the table, calmly taking another bite of my now-cold chicken, feeling oddly detached as I watch the scene unfold before me. This turn of events isn't how I planned for tonight to go, but I can't say I'm upset about the change in plans either.
There's something darkly poetic about watching my mother's life slip away beneath Silas's hands.
The woman who brought me into this world, the one person who should have loved and protected me more fiercely than anyone but didn't. Now she's dying by the hands of the stranger who has protected me and shown me more care in just a few months than she had in eighteen years.
"Not so easy to talk shit about her now, is it?" he growls through clenched teeth. The muscles in his forearms flex as he holds her down. "You don't deserve to breathe the same air as her. "
My mother's legs kick weakly, her fingers clawing uselessly at the cushion being held against her face. The alcohol and drugs have made her movements uncoordinated and sluggish. Her muffled noises barely heard through the worn fabric of the cushion.
"I should have done this months ago," he pants, pressing harder. "Should have made you suffer for every cruel word, every time she went hungry, every time you made her feel small."
My mother's struggles grow weaker, her feet no longer moving against the floor. I move closer, drawn in by some morbid fascination to witness her final moments.
Silas doesn't even realize I'm near him now. Nothing around him matters, it's just him and the death sentence he's delivering. Just like I saw with Corey, it's like a switch inside of him has been flipped. The calm, caring side of Silas is gone. The monster has control now.
"This is too quick," Silas mutters, his chest heaving. "Too easy. You deserve so much fucking worse."
But it's too late for worse. Her body goes completely still beneath him, and her arms fall limp at her sides. Silas holds the cushion in place for another full minute before lifting it away and slowly sitting back on his heels. Her eyes are open, vacant and glassy, staring at the ceiling.
I feel... nothing. No satisfaction, no grief. Just nothing where eighteen years of pain and anger used to live. I always thought when the moment came, I'd finally feel something. Sadness maybe, or relief. But watching her die feels about as meaningful to me as watching someone mow their lawn.
Returning to the table, I pour some tequila into a paper cup. Walking back to Silas, I hold out the paper cup to him, "Feel better now?"
He looks up at me, chest heaving and his whiskey-colored eyes still wild with rage.
"I'm sorry," he says softly as he takes the cup from my hand, downing the contents in one go.
"I couldn't listen to another fucking word out of her mouth about you.
It was like I was a kid again, having to sit at the table and listen to my father disrespect my mother and talk down to her. I couldn't listen to it anymore."
I feel more sadness and sympathy for Silas having to relive those memories than I do looking at my mother's body still beneath him.
"You don't have to apologize, but just for the record, I'd like to point out that I'm not the one who went off script here. I had a whole plan involving chicken, some passive-aggressive conversation, and her slow descent into alcohol and drug induced unconsciousness."
"Charlotte." His voice carries a warning, but I'm too amused by his loss of control to heed it.
"I mean, I'm not complaining, I actually liked it.
It was kind of hot in a 'my sexy captor turned kill coach roomie just snapped and murdered my mom' sort of way.
Seeing you lose control like that actually makes you seem more human and less whatever it is you normally are.
" I tap my chin thoughtfully. "But I'm pretty sure this has to break at least two or three of your rules about proper murder etiquette. "
"Whatever it is I normally am?"
"You know, all proper and uptight with your rules and routines."
Silas runs a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to smooth it back into place. "And you're really going to lecture me right now as you're taking a bite out of a chicken leg while standing over your mother's corpse? Chicken that should have never been brought here in the first place?"
"You said I had to eat first before alcohol. I'm just following directions. I was sticking to the plan." I wave my hand over Silas and my mother. "Unlike someone who just couldn't wait their turn."
He rises to his feet, straightening his clothes. "Couldn' t wait my turn?"
I look down at my mother's body. "Seriously, what happened to all that 'everything must be perfectly planned' stuff you're always preaching about?"
"I couldn't let her talk to you like that," he says simply, as if that explains everything.
"Aww." I bat my eyelashes at him dramatically. "Nothing says 'I care' quite like spontaneous murder." I hold up the bottle of tequila and shake it around.
"Really? Right now?" He waves a hand over my mother's body, his expression a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement.
"It's not like she's going anywhere." I shrug, waving the chicken leg in the direction of her lifeless form sprawled out on the kitchen floor.
"You said yourself this needed celebrated.
Well, ding-dong the witch is dead." I wiggle the tequila bottle between us enticingly.
"Grab the limes. We've got a momentous occasion on our hands. "
He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling deeply, but I can see the corner of his mouth turning upward. "You don't need time to process this or something?"
"You're absolutely right." I nod solemnly, then let my eyes drift deliberately down to his torso.
"What I really need is to lick salt from your abs and wash it down with tequila.
" I place my hand over my heart and give him my best mournful expression, eyes wide and innocent.
"You know, to properly mourn and process my grief. "
I throw the half eaten piece of chicken back onto my plate and grab a lime and the salt, then lean against the kitchen island. Crossing one ankle over the other, I wait to see if he will take the bait.
I watch as Silas's expression shifts from exasperation to something darker, more predatory. He stalks toward me, his large frame caging me in against the counter, hands gripping the edge on either side of me .
His eyes drop to my lips. "This isn't part of your lesson."
"I know," I reach up, trailing my fingers along his jawline. "I'm going for extra credit."
The muscle ticks in his jaw as he battles with himself. The strict, controlled part of him fighting against whatever urges he's feeling.
"We should clean this up," he says, but makes no move to step away. His body remains firmly pressed against mine. "And maybe not with your mother in the room."
I gasp dramatically, widening my eyes in mock scandal.
"Do you think she'll watch?" The words come out as a breathy whisper.
I slide my hand down his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt and the rapid beating of his heart against my palm.
That tells me everything his composed face tries to hide.
He's nervous. Maybe even more than I am.
"Unless you're making excuses because you're scared? "
"Scared of what?" He leans in closer, his hands tighten on the counter, like he's trying to hold himself back. "Of you?"
"No, not of me. I think you're afraid of what might happen if you loosen your grip on the control you cling to so tightly.
" My fingers find the top button of his shirt, and I hold his gaze as I slowly work it free.
When he remains still, neither encouraging nor stopping me, I continue down his chest, untucking his shirt to reach the last few buttons.
"Afraid you might actually like the way it feels to let go.
To give in and finally take what you really want. "
"Not even a little bit."
"Prove it." In one swift motion, I slip my hand into his pocket and retrieve the knife he always carries on him. Grabbing one of the limes, I press both into his hands, my fingers lingering against his. "One shot each. Then we clean up and get out of here. Unless you're not up for the challenge? "
He doesn't move for a long moment, just stares at me like he can see right through me.
Then without breaking eye contact, the knife flashes in his hand as he flips it open, the polished metal blade catching in the dim light of the ceiling fan above us.
His blade glides through the fruit easily, cutting the lime into four perfect quarters.
The lime wedges land on the counter with quiet thumps, their delicious scent filling the air around us.
"No shot glasses," he says casually, smiling like he's enjoying some private joke. "Take your shirt off and lose the bra. We'll have to make do without."