Chapter Thirty-Two Blue
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blue
The basement air carries the scent of champagne and anticipation—two of my favorite combinations. Hans has outdone himself
with tonight’s presentation. The stone walls are softened by warm lighting, and he’s arranged a proper dessert service on
the antique sideboard: crystal flutes, vintage champagne chilling in silver buckets, and delicate petit fours that Wren must
have prepared before she turned in for the evening.
Our two remaining dinner guests complete the tableau.
Jack “The Knife” Crow sits in the chair closest to the champagne setup, his wrists secured with Hans’s trademark efficiency.
No gags this time—I want to hear what they have to say. Victor “The Veteran” Crow occupies the chair beside him, his confiscated
cane sword leaning against the wall like a decorative accent.
Both men eye the champagne setup with obvious wariness. Smart. They should be wary.
“Gentlemen,” I say, guiding Saylor down the final steps with my hand at the small of her back. “I hope you weren’t waiting
long.”
“Not at all,” Victor replies, but he carries less of the confidence he showed at dinner. “Though I have to say, your hospitality
has taken quite the turn since the soup course.”
Jack snorts. “Hospitality? Your psychotic girlfriend stabbed Leroy through the fucking hand. Where is he, anyway?”
I can feel Saylor’s posture straighten beside me, but when I glance at her profile, there’s no trace of the earlier nausea.
If anything, she looks . . . eager.
“Leroy’s indisposed at the moment,” I say pleasantly. “But don’t worry—you’ll be joining him soon enough.”
“Hans,” I call, and the big German emerges from the shadows near the wine storage. “Would you mind opening the champagne?
I think tonight calls for a celebration.”
“What exactly are we celebrating?” Jack asks, testing his restraints with casual interest. “Your girlfriend’s impressive stabbing technique? Because I have to say, the follow-through was shit.”
Saylor moves toward the champagne setup with fluid grace, pulling a small velvet bag from her purse. “We’re celebrating progress,”
she says, her voice carrying a confidence that wasn’t there when we first met at dinner. “Personal growth. Learning new skills.”
Hans pops the first cork like he’s done it a thousand times before, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a small gunshot.
Victor flinches despite himself, while Jack just watches Saylor with growing unease.
“You know what your problem is, sweetheart?” Jack says with less swagger now. “You think one lucky stab makes you dangerous.”
Saylor extracts a bottle filled with tiny blue spheres from the velvet bag. “Actually, Jack, I think my problem was trying
to be something I’m not.” She unscrews the cap with steady hands. “All that dramatic knife work. Very messy. Not really my
style.”
My pulse quickens as I watch her tap not one, but two blue orbs into her palm. Christ, she’s learning fast.
“What are those?” Victor asks, his earlier composure finally cracking.
“Medicine,” Saylor says sweetly, studying the blue spheres in her palm. “For your nerves. You both seem so tense.”
“Two?” I can’t keep the admiration out of my voice. “Feeling efficient tonight?”
She glances at me, and the heat in her gaze makes my blood sing. “It’s been a long day. I don’t feel like waiting around.”
She drops both orbs into the first champagne flute, watching them dissolve with scientific interest. “Plus, Duffy said I should
experiment with dosages. Test different approaches.”
Hans pours the second glass, the bubbles rising in perfect streams. Saylor drops two more blue spheres into this flute as
well, her movements becoming more confident with each repetition.
“Duffy?” Victor’s voice cracks slightly. “You got poison from that witch?”
“Witch? I thought you men burned all the witches at the stake years ago,” Saylor says, accepting both glasses from Hans. She holds them up to the light, watching the last traces of blue fade completely. “But call her whatever you want.”
Jack laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just the desperate bravado of a man who knows he’s fucked. “You really think we’re
just going to drink whatever you hand us?”
“Oh, you absolutely are.” Saylor moves to stand directly in front of his chair, champagne flute extended like an offering.
“Hans is going to help you remember your manners if needed.”
Hans flexes his fingers like a pianist preparing for a concert.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Victor says, yanking at his bonds. “Blue, what happened to professional courtesy? Just put a
bullet in our heads and be done with it.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” I lean back in my chair, thoroughly entertained. “Saylor’s been practicing. I’d hate to deny
her the opportunity to show off her new skills.”
Saylor kneels gracefully beside Jack’s chair, holding the champagne flute like a communion chalice. “Come on, Jack. One little
sip. It’s excellent champagne—Wren doesn’t stock anything cheap.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Hans, could you help Jack open his mouth? I think he’s forgotten how to be polite.”
Hans moves behind Jack’s chair with predatory grace, placing one massive hand on the man’s forehead while using the other
to grip his jaw. Jack tries to keep his mouth clamped shut, but Hans knows exactly how much pressure to apply until his lips
part.
Saylor tilts the glass, pouring a small amount between his teeth. “Just swallow, Jack. Fighting it only makes things take
longer.”
Jack spits, spraying champagne across the stone floor with defiant fury. Hans immediately pinches his nose while keeping his
jaw forced open, cutting off his air supply.
“There we go,” Saylor says pleasantly, pouring another measure when Jack’s mouth opens in a desperate gasp for air. “Much
better cooperation.”
This time, Jack has no choice but to swallow or drown. The fight goes out of him as soon as the champagne hits his system—he
knows it’s over.
Victor is easier. The old gangster doesn’t fight when Hans grips his jaw, just opens his mouth and lets Saylor pour the champagne down his throat. He swallows it all with the resignation of someone who’s lived too long in this business to expect mercy.
Saylor settles back to watch like she’s got front row seats to her favorite show.
Hans sets the empty glass aside.
Victor’s voice is already getting weaker as he speaks. “You know this won’t end with us. The Crow have been around for years,
Blue. Kill us, and ten more will take our place.”
“I’m counting on it,” Saylor says, echoing my words from dinner with a confidence that makes something hot and primal uncoil
in my chest. “More practice.”
The casual way she discusses multiple murders, the complete confidence in her voice—watching her discover this side of herself
is better than any drug I’ve ever tried.
The basement falls quiet except for the increasingly labored breathing of our guests. Jack’s face has gone pale, sweat beading
on his forehead despite the cool air. Victor tries to speak but can only manage a whisper.
“This . . . this isn’t justice,” Victor manages. “This is revenge.”
Saylor tilts her head, considering his words with genuine curiosity. “Is there a difference?”
Victor’s head drops forward, his breathing becoming shallow and irregular. Jack follows a moment later, the last traces of
defiance finally leaving his body.
I watch Saylor as she studies their faces, taking in every detail like she’s memorizing it. Her breathing is steady, her color
normal, her stomach apparently settled. No nausea, no fainting—just watching them die by her own hand.
“Well?” I ask quietly.
She turns to look at me, and the satisfaction blazing in her expression makes my pulse pound. “I could get used to this.”
The way she says it—the quiet conviction, the complete absence of guilt or regret, the flush in her cheeks that has nothing
to do with exertion—makes something primitive and hungry rise in my chest. Watching her kill, seeing her embrace this part
of herself without apology, is the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.
I stand slowly, moving toward her with deliberate intent. She meets my gaze without flinching, and when I cup her face in my hands, her lips part in anticipation.
“You’re incredible,” I murmur against her mouth before kissing her with all the heat and admiration I’ve been holding back.
She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me closer with desperate hunger. The kiss tastes like
victory, and when she breaks away to look at me, her eyes are dark with the same arousal that’s coursing through my veins.
“Bedroom,” she whispers, her voice breathless with want. “Now.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.