10. OLIVIA
OLIVIA
Ialready regretted everything.
From the moment I woke up this morning, to the last ten seconds, I was a big weeping ball of regret.
Peter’s smile promised violence. He stood in front of the door, blocking it. There was a drop of blood on his shirt. I’d broken his skin. Stupidly, I licked my lips. His blood tainted my tongue.
“You are going to tell me who you are,” he said, still cradling his wrist. “Or I’m going to fuck it out of you.”
“I’m nobody,” I said, swallowing. I kept my voice even, despite the tears burning behind my eyes. He wanted a victim. Playing along wouldn’t help me—it would just excite him, as evident by his still-raging erection.
“You’re a bad liar.”
“This was a mistake,” I said, backing up against the counter, my hands searching blindly behind me for a weapon. “I don’t know who you think I am. But I’m not into this scene. I’m not—I don’t—"
My tears broke, despite my best efforts. No matter what he did, I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him about Jax and his crew.
He was going to hurt me either way.
My fingers nudged the bottle of hand soap just as he lunged. He went straight for my throat. I twisted out of his reach and aimed a kick at his balls. He dodged it easily, bouncing back with an amused smile.
He was a trained fighter, a former fucking CIA agent.
I didn’t stand a chance.
He knew it. I knew it. But it wouldn’t stop me fighting like hell.
I launched the hand soap at his head. He caught it in his hand like a tennis ball.
Then he stepped forward, slowly, without urgency, like we had all the time in the world.
“I’ve never killed a blonde before,” he said conversationally. “Red heads and brunettes, plenty, but never one like you. It’s a shame I can’t draw it out. See you on the inside first.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, bracing myself. I would scream. I would scream so loud, they’d hear me from the ground.
Suddenly, Peter stumbled forward, his face pinching. He grimaced, one hand flying to his stomach.
Did nearly raping a girl give him indigestion?
It passed a second later, and the killer was back to his regular programming. “How many others are with you?”
“None, you creep. I just work here.”
He didn’t believe me. His arrogance bled through. “I’m worthy of more than just you,” he said with a slight sneer. “One pathetic girl. Don’t insult me.”
I said nothing, my jaw suddenly wired shut.
He opened his mouth, then grimaced again and hissed in pain. He hunched over as if nursing a stomachache.
Someone knocked on the door.
A voice came through: “Hey, man. I really need to use the bathroom.”
I nearly sobbed.
It was Ryle.
The pounding continued, louder. “Hey, you. Guy in the light blue shirt with the douchebag haircut. I know you’re in there. Come on, I’m busting!”
Peter was still fighting whatever weird digestive attack had overcome him. Sweat broke across his brow.
I tried to reach around him for the lock. He caught my arm, shoving me back into the sink. “No,” he snarled. “We’re not done.”
Outside, Ryle muttered: “fuck this.”
Then I heard him jimmying the lock like he had with the briefcase.
Peter swayed to one side, his lip curling into a sneer. “What did you do to me?”
I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a petrified squeak.
A murderous expression crossed his face. When he moved toward me, I knew it was with intent to kill. I was out of time. Ryle wasn’t going to make it.
I sucked in a breath to scream—
And then the door exploded open, smashing into Peter’s back. He stumbled forward, gripping the wall for balance.
I looked at the doorway in relief. Except it wasn’t Ryle who stood there.
It was Madoc.
His face was blank as he took in the scene. His eyes swept over Peter, clocking his sickly pallor.
Then he looked vaguely amused as he turned to me. “What did you do?”
“N-Nothing,” I stuttered, crossing my arms. I was trembling like a leaf.
Behind Madoc, Ryle peeked in, relief clear on his face.
Peter grunted and threw himself past Madoc. He staggered out of the bathroom clumsily, his face pale, eye sockets looking bruised.
I didn’t understand what was happening. Was he drunk? Drugged?
Was it an act?
I stood next to Madoc and watched in confusion. Peter made it to the middle of the aisle before he collapsed. He groaned like a wounded animal. Then he started convulsing, a full on possessed-by-the-devil seizure, his mouth frothing and eyes rolled back into his head.
Okay, so he definitely wasn’t faking it.
I felt Madoc staring at me. I met his gaze and saw suspicion lurking behind those unnerving, all-seeing green eyes. I knew he didn’t trust me, but did he really think I was capable of whatever this was?
Then the panic hit.
Passengers rushed to Peter’s side, trying to help him. Lucille and Marcus joined the fray, calling for a doctor.
It wasn’t until I couldn’t see Peter anymore that my brain snapped out of its panic-induced fog and I remembered.
“Watch!” I hissed at Madoc. “It’s in the watch!”
Madoc nodded and moved toward the chaos, but he didn’t get far. The plane shuddered, and for a heart-stopping second, it felt like the whole world had tipped to its side.
A panicked cry rang out: “He’s dead!”
My heart sank in dread.
No.
No, he couldn’t be.
I shoved myself forward on unsteady legs, squeezing down the aisle between onlookers.
Lucille was trying to order people back into their seats.
By the time I shoved through the bodies, Peter’s face had turned a violent purple, as if all the blood in his body had collected in his head.
He was unrecognizable to the man he’d been just minutes ago.
His face was puffy, eyes beady and bloodshot.
White foam spilled from his slack mouth.
Across the cabin, I spotted Julie, staring back at me with wide, confused eyes.
And when I looked back down, unable to help myself, one more thing became glaringly obvious.
The watch was gone.