20. Twenty Ella
Twenty: Ella
I watched her, the way Priscilla's fingers slid with cold precision under the mahogany desk, emerging with steel glinting in the dim light. My pulse hammered in my throat as she pointed the gun at Chris, her lips curling into a sneer.
"Doesn't matter what you fuckers do to me," she spat, "Cinder Crew... we're like a damn plague. Everywhere, every fucking corner of this shithole planet."
Chris stood motionless, his tattooed hands hanging loose by his sides, the black bandana pulled down to reveal his clenched jaw. A muscle ticked in his neck. The air was thick with tension.
A chuckle escaped my lips, bubbling up from a well of righteous anger deep within. Priscilla's eyes widened, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her cruel features. She hadn't expected laughter, not from little Ella, the caged little bird with clipped wings. But I wasn't that girl anymore.
Quick as a flash, my hand slipped into Chris', fingers wrapping around the cool metal of his knife as I pulled it from him. The weapon felt like power, as I palmed it.
"Surprise, bitch," I muttered.
Priscilla’s gun still trained on him, but her eyes, those dead, beady eyes, locked onto me.
"Stupid girl," she hissed. "You think you can—"
I lunged. The blade plunged into the soft flesh of her neck, a grotesque symphony of tearing skin and a gurgled scream that choked off as crimson erupted from the wound. Blood sprayed, a scarlet mist painting the mahogany desk, soaking the papers that spelled out countless lives ruined by her orders.
"Fuck!" I gasped, recoiling at the warm splatter on my face before smearing it over my skin like war paint.
Priscilla clawed at the gash in her throat, eyes bulging with shock and pain. A dark pool rapidly spread beneath her, seeping into the intricate weave of the Persian rug. Her legs buckled, body slumping to the floor with a sickening thud, the life ebbing from her with each pulse of exposed artery.
"Jesus, Ella. I was not expecting that."
I turned to him, chest heaving, hands slick with blood. In that moment, caught in the crossfire of horror and triumph, I saw it—the raw hunger in his eyes. His tall frame tensed, muscles tight under ink-stained skin. His breaths came hard and fast, pupils dilating as he took in the sight before him. A beautiful masterpiece of death and redemption.
"Damn that was hot as fuck," he growled, stepping over Priscilla's convulsing form, closing the gap between us. His gaze roamed over me like a touch, igniting something fierce and primal within. He reached for me, fingers brushing at a smear of blood on my cheek. His touch was gentle as he held me in reverence.
"Fuckin' wild," he said, more to himself than to me, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
He stepped closer until the tips of his boots nudged against mine, our bodies almost touching. As his chest rose, I could feel it brushing against mine. The tension crackled between us. Shifting from bitter revenge to something more potent.
"Chris..." My throat felt tight, words failing me as his hands landed on my hips, smearing Priscilla's blood across the fabric of my leggings.
"Shh," he hushed me. His lips hovered over mine, teasing, promising. "Such a beautiful avenging angel."
His mouth crashed against mine, a brutal kiss that stole my breath. I gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping in to duel with mine. It was possessive, demanding—everything I never knew I craved. Until him.
We stumbled, half-falling against the desk, the papers and clutter scattering beneath our frenzied movements. I clawed at his shirt, pulling it up and over his head before dropping it to the floor.
"God, Ella," he growled against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You're fucking incredible."
I managed a grunt in response, broken by the hitch of my breath as he hoisted me onto the desk, the edge biting into my thighs.
"Such perfection." His voice was ragged as he freed himself, the sight of him raw and powerful against the backdrop of death.
We joined in a clash of bodies, the slide of skin on skin. The pool of blood only served to act as paint. Marring our skin in redemption. In freedom. I clung to him, nails digging into the hard planes of his back, each score drawing more blood as he thrust into me. Chris moved with a ferocity that matched the storm that raged within me. Each push a claim, each pull an emphasis of every rule we'd broken.
"Fuck, yes," I panted, the edge in his eyes stoking the fire building between my legs. The sounds of our fucking were primal, unhinged, underscored by the faint drip of blood from the desk to the floor.
The room that had become the church for new starts, devolved into a tableau of sin, the air heavy with the scent of sex and blood. We took and gave in equal measure, bodies moving in a fevered rhythm, fresh with the thrill of transgression.
When release came, it was cataclysmic, tearing through us with the force of all we'd unleashed that day. Our cries mingled, a savage duet that echoed off the walls, sealing our victory.
Afterward, I sat there, resting my head against him as he traced lines over the scars on my back. His breaths were deep, his chest rising and falling against me.
"Sunshine," he murmured into my hair, a tenderness in the word.
"Charming."
"You are everything I hated and hoped for, wrapped into one fucked up present."
"I take offense to that." I scoffed before giggling. It was true though. Not the offense part, but the part where I was fucked up. I had always pictured myself as the type of girl to just go with what everyone else wanted from me. But when my life became about survival, I managed to pull out a psycho I never knew existed.
He kissed the top of my head, "I'm proud of you, my little ember."
"Why do you call me that?"
"Because. I knew that all it would take to fan the flame in you was a spark. You held the simmering rage inside you this whole time."
I hummed against him as I mulled that over. It was true, I suppose. I had always held a streak of defiance. It just took being kidnapped, thrown into a cell and sexually awakened by this brooding Prince of Darkness to force it out.
"Well, as much as I'd like to sit in this pool of blood with you forever, there's money somewhere in here and we should grab it and take off before the rest of the guard arrives."
I staggered to my feet, muscles aching, but it was the pounding in my head that screamed loudest. A blend of freedom and relief. Mixed with a healthy dose of 'what the fuck am I?'
My eyes fell on the steel beast of a safe hidden behind the desk. It sat in the corner like a promise. Without hesitation, I punched in the code burned into my memory from nights spent cleaning her office—watching, always watching.
"Damn woman, you're full of surprises," Chris observed, walking closer as the safe door swung open with a metallic groan.
Inside, wads of cash sat stacked neatly. My hand trembled as I reached in, the crisp bills whispering promises between my fingers. I shoved them into the grocery bag lying discarded by Priscilla's corpse. Each bundle felt like a brick in the foundation of a new life being laid down with my own hands.
"Looks like we're in business, babe." Chris' smirk was back.
"More than enough to disappear," I muttered. Could money scrub away the stains we'd left behind? Was Priscilla telling the truth? That the Cinder Crew would find us?
I clutched the money tight against my chest, feeling its weight as much as the gravity of what we'd done. This money belonged to the families of the girls slain to make it. I would do right by them. They deserved better than the ending they got.
"I hate this place," I whispered, the idea taking root. Our crimes were many, but so were our dreams. I turned to him, my gaze locking onto his deep blue eyes.
"Let's burn it all," he wrapped his arm around me and pulled out a lighter. "Do the honors?"
I grinned. "Gladly." Flicking it, I watched as the little flame danced before setting the wad of bloodied papers on the desk on fire. "Good riddance."
The room around us reeked of death, but in his arms, I saw the dawn of a new day, our day, where the darkness of our past would be consumed by the light we'd create, together.
"Ready?" he grunted.
"Let's go."
We moved in unison, walking further and further from the person who had tried to destroy us.
"Think they'll come after us?"
"Let 'em try." He grinned, looking down at me.
Down the grand staircase and into the foyer we went.
"Never thought I'd find someone like you," Chris murmured suddenly, squeezing my shoulder.
"Someone to drench in blood and fuck against a desk?" I teased, my lips twisting into a smirk.
"Someone to set the world ablaze with."
"Oh, Chris..." My chest tightened. "We can do anything."
"Like a couple of wild cards."
"Only thing wilder is what I want to do to you once we're out of here," I breathed.
"Promises, promises," he shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
There, the main doors—the threshold to our freedom. They stood tall, imposing, the barrier between us and the unknown.
"End of the line," I whispered, casting a glance back at the chaos we were leaving behind.
"Beginning of everything," he countered, pulling me close, his body a solid wall against my back.
We reached for the handles together, metal cold and unyielding beneath our fingers. With a shared nod, we flung the doors open, stepping into the night.
"Freedom feels like power," I mused, feeling the rush of the cool night air.
"Feels like you," Chris pulled me against him, his hands roaming with need. His lips crashed on me, desperate. Wanting.
We broke apart only when the need for air became too much. Hand in hand, we walked to the sedan. Whatever lay ahead, we'd face it as one—unbreakable, unstoppable, un-fucking-conquerable.