Chapter 27
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Who? Rowan shouldn’t have let the question slip from her lips.
She shouldn’t have shown just how desperate and willing she was.
Delilah would take it and run if she realized exactly how under her thumb Rowan was.
How gone Rowan always had been for her. Rowan was fucked.
She was addicted. She’d fallen into the deep end and was gladly drowning, lapping up whatever filthy scraps Delilah threw her.
Her thoughts and actions didn’t belong to herself anymore. She was an extension of Delilah, controlled purely by the base instinct of desire.
When Delilah’s smile curved and her gorgeous mouth opened, the name on her tongue was the last one Rowan had expected. Brinks. Rowan’s guard, the one she’d screened and hired herself only a year ago. Her second in command until a mere five minutes with Delilah had turned him into a pathetic puppet.
The one who Delilah had threatened. The one who had lied to Rowan.
Delilah didn’t tell him she was going to kill his only child if he refused to comply.
She threatened to expose him for abusing the poor thing, to kill him—not the kid—next if he didn’t do exactly as she demanded.
But her plan had never included letting him live.
She had always intended for Rowan to kill him.
It was evident in her words as she fed Rowan the name, the expectations, the method.
Rowan asked how Delilah had known about him, what proof she’d had, but Delilah only laughed before she pushed Rowan away and claimed she was done being outside. She left Rowan to scramble to her feet and rush to the door before Delilah pushed it open by herself.
Now, mere hours later, Rowan found herself all but stalking the man. She’d gotten lucky. She’d gotten really lucky. His bar of choice hadn’t changed since he’d been fired, and he hadn’t suddenly decided to spend his nights at home.
The sun had set long ago when he finally stumbled out of the bar, pausing to right himself against the building wall before he set off walking.
The streetlights illuminated his slouched figure, swaying and tripping over his feet every fifteen steps as he made his way home—at least, that’s where Rowan assumed he was headed. This was going to be too easy.
Some part of her recognized that she should feel guilty about this.
That there should be any bit of trepidation about planning to murder a man in cold blood.
Her first planned kill. But there was none.
Where adrenaline should be ratcheted up, there were only thoughts of Delilah. She was a woman possessed.
The only thing on her mind as she followed Brinks down the dark street was what Delilah’s face would look like when she told her it was done, how she would demand the details.
She knew Delilah would be pleased, would reward her for her actions.
And she knew what Delilah wanted, what she felt like, how hard her slender fingers could grip Rowan.
She craved that possessive hold on her body, claiming her, marking her, destroying her.
Rowan pulled the switchblade out of her pocket.
It wasn’t the same one Delilah had so delicately hidden on her person, but it was close.
The handle was small and smooth, the blade fully concealed when it was retracted.
The main difference was the size. Rowan had needed a larger one.
She’d need to shove her blade deeper than Delilah’s surface level cuts.
Brinks turned down a small, concealed alley.
Rowan watched as he leaned against the wall, barely keeping himself awake while he gathered the strength to continue.
She took a quick glance around before pulling the hood of her plain, black sweatshirt up with gloved hands, hiding her features.
On a cursory look, she didn’t see any security cameras, but she wasn’t going to take any chances, wasn’t going to risk getting caught and separated from Delilah.
He didn’t even falter as she approached, didn’t raise his head at her quiet footsteps.
His reaction time was shot, drowned in the alcohol, and his movements were too slow to catch up with his surroundings.
Rowan shoved the blade through his abdomen before he even registered her presence.
Pushing hard, she met resistance, like cutting through a thick, leather canvas.
Then she twisted the knife, hoping to perforate whatever organs she could, ensuring he’d bleed out before help found him.
Blood gushed from the wound, darkening his thin grey shirt immediately, and Rowan retracted the blade, helping him slide to the ground against the wall before she quickly located his phone and wallet.
He gurgled, sludge crawling out of his mouth as he tried to speak, to plead, to beg for forgiveness that she wouldn’t give.
But his words were too garbled to make sense.
The light was fading quickly from his eyes.
She sorted through his wallet, removing the credit cards and the cash while his labored breathing slowed. Then she tossed the now empty wallet onto his blood and piss-darkened lap, scrunching her nose at the sight of him.
There was no point in sticking around now that it was done.
She pocketed her findings, intent on tossing the phone somewhere it wouldn’t be found.
She’d destroy the credit cards, but there was no point in letting the cash go to waste.
The death would look like a mugging and the police would spend no more than a day looking for the culprit.
A few blocks away, she removed her gloves, shoving the phone and credit cards into them before throwing them into a trash can on the street. As quickly as it had started, it was over. Rowan couldn’t wait to tell Delilah.