Octavia
I keep driving slowly, unable to pull my eyes from the car burning in the distance, watching as the fire consumes it.
I stop a few metres away and turn off the engine.
The moment I step out, the stench of burnt rubber assaults me, and I walk toward the wreckage despite the heat scorching my skin, because I need to see it, need to be certain he is inside, that it is finished, that he will never hurt another girl again.
What if he never did?
The voice whispers at the back of my mind, and I shove it aside, refusing to let the guilt claw its way into me, because I am Death for a reason, and I have never felt anything for my victims beyond the certainty that they deserved it.
This should be no different.
So why the fuck does it feel different now?
Perhaps because I have always been careful, verified my sources, always proven beyond doubt that the men I hunted had truly hurt the innocent.
And this time…
This time I did not.
Because my own rage took control.
I step as close as I can, which is not very close at all because the car is still burning violently, the heat dragging a cough from my lungs as I try to see inside, though I cannot make out a thing, and yet I know well that he had been driving, and no one survives a blast like that.
Soon the authorities will find this, and they will most certainly realise it was no accident.
But I never intended for it to be. I don’t care.
The Bratva is surrounded by enemies, and someone simply managed to catch up with this particular heir.
All that remains now is to dispose of the remote and ensure nothing can ever be traced back to me.
The Thirteenth Circle may face a few inconveniences, but their leader will handle it.
Because after all, one of the Ferrum Syndicate’s heirs dying on our land could easily spark something ugly.
Oh well.
I turn back toward my car, slide into the driver’s seat, and reach for the gear…
Cold steel presses suddenly against the side of my neck.
I narrow my eyes.
“You have nine lives, Markev,” I murmur.
A deep, unhinged laugh answers from behind me, vibrating through the confined space of the car.
The blade presses harder, nicking the skin, and warmth slides slowly down my neck, the sensation almost… a tickle.
He inhales slowly, lowering his face to the side of my neck and breathing me in.
“You really are an amateur, love,” he murmurs.
I clench my jaw but say nothing.
The knife glides lazily along my skin as he speaks again, his voice rough against my ear. “I do keep wondering,” he says in a languid tone, “I keep trying to understand the reason behind all this… what I ever did to make you hate me so much. To want me dead.”
I remain silent.
And then it dawns on him.
“Ah,” he says slowly, a trace of amusement slipping into his tone. “Talia… or that is what you said that very first time, isn’t it? It completely slipped my mind. That bitch…”
“Stop,” I snap.
He chuckles darkly. “Tell me,” he says lazily, “what exactly did she say about me to make you so feral over me, and not in the way I’d prefer?”
He pauses, then adds, “To be honest, I don’t give a fuck that you are trying to kill me.
It is rather entertaining. If I ever saw a form of role play, this would be it,” he continues, his teeth grazing my neck, and I deserve a medal for the patience it takes not to so much as breathe.
“But this little game of cat and mouse will have to end sooner rather than later.”
“Come on,” he mutters. “Drive. I have somewhere to be. I am already late.”
He lifts the knife from my throat and drags his tongue slowly over the thin line of blood it left behind.
I catch his reflection in the rear view mirror, and when he feels my gaze he answers it with a wink.
I can’t believe I failed again, and yet, disturbingly, I almost feel… relieved, a thought that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
What the hell is that?
I am losing my edge.