Chapter 21 #2
Arthur’s heavy footsteps rumble close by.
Aurora tries to pull away, but I don’t loosen my fingers, even with his piercing stare at the back of my head.
I’ve already confirmed he didn’t take a knife—in his massive hands is a tray with saucers and cookies.
I wait for Aurora’s frantic nod and only then release her face.
“Tea, cookies.” The tray clatters onto the table, nearly cracking the glass top. Arthur lowers his bulk onto the couch across from us. “So you came to announce the marriage, lovebirds?”
I keep my face indifferent. There’s no way he didn’t read Zack’s letter. Fine, we’ll play at politeness. “I’ve been wanting to meet you in person for a long time, Arthur,” I say, crossing my legs. “Until recently, you were my idol.”
Aurora’s gaze drills into me, then shifts to Arthur. “Dad, I’m sorry we got married without telling you.”
“The important thing is that you don’t regret your choice.” The bastard eyes me with some skepticism.
Aurora grabs her cup and takes a sip. I stifle a sigh. I also pick up a cup and take a sip—just for show. Poison isn’t Strangler’s signature. At most, a knockout dose of sleeping pills to finish the job in his usual way, when the victim stops fighting back.
“You’ve never regretted your own choice, have you, Arthur?” I ask, deliberately light.
Aurora freezes. For a second, hellfire flares in Arthur’s eyes, and I’m finally sure he read Zack’s letter. Eleanor Vance will certainly die. And maybe not just her. I can’t help glancing at Aurora. Arthur picks up his cup—in his massive hands, it looks like a toy.
“Our lives aren’t given to us to regret, young Sterling.” His voice is low and even.
But to take from others I finish for him in my head. I came to that conclusion long ago. But now I have Aurora, and my current goal is to save her life.
Arthur looks at his daughter with tenderness. “Isn’t that right, princess?”
“Yes, I suppose,” she mutters.
“Where’s your bathroom, Arthur?” I stand, breaking this fake coziness.
“Upstairs.”
I leave, but around the corner of the hallway, I stop and listen.
Arthur is relaxed, speaking softly with his daughter.
If he slipped something into the tea, he’ll wait until she passes out.
I definitely have a couple of minutes. I know Strangler’s style; he likes to be in control of his victim.
And I need a weapon. Now. I can’t make a break for the kitchen knives—Arthur would cut me off at the door.
I rush upstairs. The bathroom can wait—my attention is caught by a half-open door to a study.
I push it open and step inside. The room smells of expensive tobacco.
I scan the room for a forgotten holster or a letter opener.
I’m about to search the desk drawers when my gaze lands on two long velvet boxes on the table.
Notes sit on top with familiar calligraphic handwriting: To my princess and To my dove.
Gifts for Aurora and, presumably, Eleanor.
I lift the lid of the one marked princess.
Inside, on black velvet, coiled in neat loops, lies a garrote. A thick silk cord, matte black, with knots at the ends.
I clench it in my fist. My heart pounds against my ribs—how long have I been upstairs? Forty seconds? A minute? I need to get back to Aurora.
“I love silk because it doesn’t leave ragged wounds on the neck.” A low bass voice hits me from behind, making the hairs on my neck stand on end. “You, from what I’ve heard, prefer blood. No sudden moves, Prince. Hands up and turn around. Slowly.”
I raise my hands, still gripping the garrote, and turn. This two-hundred-pound, wardrobe-sized man can move quieter than a shadow.
Arthur stands in the doorway, blocking the exit. In his massive hand, the gun looks almost toy-like, but the barrel is aimed right at my chest. My muscles tense, ready to lunge—a move that would likely be my last.
“Strangler …, Arthur.” I force my voice to stay steady. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I’d rather not, Prince.” He smirks good-naturedly. “You show great promise. I’ve been following your successes with interest. You’re an excellent new generation. I even know about Africa—not the details but enough to applaud you.”
“Fuck, Arthur, I’m talking about your daughter.” I dangle the black cord from my fist. “Don’t do this.”
“She’s not my daughter. It was a lie.” His voice goes flat and cold.
“You raised her. You supported her for years.” I try to find a shred of humanity in this giant lump of muscle. “Kill Eleanor. That worthless cunt deserves every second of pain. But not Aurora.”
Arthur stares at me intently, scanning my posture. “You made your toy into a loved one. That’s weakness, Prince.”
“She’s not a toy. She’s your daughter,” I growl, wild rage boiling inside me.
Arthur sighs. His massive chest rises, stretching the fabric of his sweater. “My little princess was always my pride. But it turns out I was being cuckolded for too long. If my partners find out, my image is ruined. And in our circle, reputation is everything.”
“No one will find out,” I breathe out, not taking my eyes off his finger on the trigger.
“You already know. And no doubt someone else does too.” He shifts his shoulder slightly.
I stay silent, thinking.
“That’s just an excuse,” I spit out. “You don’t want to kill her because of some fucking reputation.”
“That’s what we are, Prince.” Arthur smirks again, not even denying it. “They hit us, we kill. And that suits us both just fine.”
“I’m like that, but not with her.” I shake my head. “Not with Aurora.”
“And that’s your greatest weakness …”
“Dad?” Aurora’s anxious voice comes from the hallway. She’s nearby.
“Why the hell isn’t she passed out yet?” Arthur’s brow furrows for a fraction of a second, his head turning toward the sound.
That split second is all I need. I launch myself forward, putting all my power into a short uppercut to his jaw.
Arthur’s teeth clack together, his head snapping back.
He manages to pull the trigger, but I’ve already hit his arm, knocking the barrel aside.
The shot booms in the cramped study, a bullet tearing a splinter out of the wall.
I latch onto his wrist in a death grip, twisting the joint. The gun thuds dully onto the carpet. But Arthur is a rock—I can’t drop him with one blow. He roars, swinging his free arm, and crashes down on me with his full weight.
Two hundred pounds of muscle and rage slam me into the floor. We take out the coffee table, and the air blasts from my lungs as we smack onto the hardwood floor with a deafening crack.
“Now you’ll find out why they call me Strangler,” he growls, throwing his full weight on top of me. His huge paws close around my throat, crushing my windpipe. I punch his jaw, his temple, but he roars and grinds me into the floor, cutting off my air.
“Desire! Dad! Stop!”
The sharp clatter of a slide being racked freezes us both.
Arthur releases my throat but presses his heavy knee into my chest, knocking out the last of my breath.
He turns his gaze to the door, and I greedily, raggedly suck in slivers of oxygen through my bruised throat.
We both look up at Aurora. She stands in the doorway, gripping the pistol with both hands.
She’s pale, and her golden hair is spread over her shoulders like a halo.
Her eyes are wide, her lips parted as her gaze darts between us, unsure who to aim at.
“Shoot this bastard, my princess!” Arthur booms, keeping his knee on my chest. “He’s attacked me! He’s insane!”
“It’s a lie, Aurora …” I rasp, clawing for scraps of air. “He’s going to kill you.”
“Rory, shoot him!” Arthur grabs the silk cord from the floor—the one I dropped in the fall—and loops it around my throat. “Or just watch me do it, princess.”
“Dad, no! No!” There’s pure terror in her voice.
With one hand, Arthur lifts me by the back of my neck; with the other, he slides the slippery fabric under my throat. Crossing the ends of the garrote, he cinches it tight. The silk bites into my skin; bloody spots explode before my eyes.
“Just stand and watch, princess,” Arthur growls.
I punch at his ribs, his kidneys—he absorbs the blows, grinding me into the floor with his weight. A piercing ring builds in my ears. Consciousness slips into darkness, leaving only the searing pain in my crushed throat.
A gunshot blast cracks the silence of the study.
The pressure on my throat vanishes instantly. I suck in a ragged breath, the air burning my lungs like molten lead. Arthur topples to the side, letting out a guttural howl. He convulses, clutching his hands to his shot chest.
“Aurora,” I rasp, coughing.
Ignoring Arthur’s convulsions behind me and the crimson circles swimming before my eyes, I force myself to my feet. The world tilts, the walls swim, but I walk toward my wife.