She winces, though I’m not applying enough pressure to do any actual damage. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
“Why would I do that?”
A pause. Her lips part, her tiny pink tongue darting out to wet the bottom one.
Growing weary of her refusal to answer my questions, I pinch the side of my slacks and crouch down, draping my forearms over my knees as I meet her at eye level. My foot stays, keeping her hand in place and her on her knees.
Hatred burns through her features as we stare at one another, and my cock jerks behind the zipper of my slacks at the rawness of it all. She doesn’t even know how much she should hate me; it’s pure instinct at this point, something primal that drives her to react so strongly to my presence.
“I lied.”
My eyebrows arch, surprise etching into the planes of my face. “Oh?”
Folding her lips together, she gives a tiny nod. “I know who you are.”
The breath stalls in my lungs, and I wait for more. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t come, and I’m starting to wonder if this woman offers anything unless held under extreme duress.
“I see.” My foot slips back, sliding away from her hand, which remains on the paintbrush. “And?”
She looks up. “And what?”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
I’m not sure what I expect her to say, but it’s certainly not what I get. Her head tilts, as if considering my question, and then she’s pushing to her feet. Dusting dirt from the front of her dress and adjusting the way her tits sit in the fabric.
The movement is slow. Discerning.
Anxiety floods my nervous system, washing out rationale where this girl is concerned, and I’m not even sure why. Something about her is bloody unsettling.
I move as she does, unfolding myself so I’m still towering over her.
She takes a step forward, shoulders straight, and comes toward me until our bodies are almost touching. Notes of vanilla and something whimsically floral waft around me as she reaches out, taking my hand in hers.
It takes me a moment longer than it should to realize what she’s doing.
Uncurling my fingers, I’m trapped inside her hypnotic gaze while she presses something into my palm. Then she’s folding each digit back and pressing my fist to my chest.
When she releases and steps away, it feels like she takes all the air with her.
“It may be your word against mine,” she says, her lips curving upward. “But my word holds much more weight than that of the man who tried to kill my father. I don’t think anyone will have a hard time believing you’re the culprit, especially now that your fingerprints are everywhere. The victim, the scenery…”
Trailing off, she cocks a brow and nods her chin at my hand. “The weapon.”
Glancing down, I unroll my fist to see she’s tucked the paintbrush inside, effectively tying me to the crime scene as much as she is. And while technically I could scrub it clear of me before she even had time to return to the party, I have to admit I’m intrigued by the little puppet.
I point the sharp, bloody edge of the brush at her. “I could just kill you. My word against that of the recently departed.”
Taking another step back, she shrugs, smoothing her hands down over her stomach. All confidence, except for the slight tremor racking her fingertips.
“You could,” she concedes, even as she puts more distance between us. Reaching the door to the stairwell, she grips the knob in one hand and twists, pushing it open. “But that’s not why you came here tonight, is it?”
4
Narrowly avoiding contact with guests lining the halls on the main level of the house, I make it back to my bedroom.
Somehow.
By the grace of God, maybe.
Locking the door behind me, I flatten my back against the wood and let out a laugh of indignance.
Sure, Len.
More like the grace of Jonas Wolfe.
A man not known for mercy or softness. Who literally just threatened to take me out of this planet’s rotation when he realized I intended to stab him the same as I did my attacker.
It wouldn’t surprise me if Jonas fancies himself God. All the men in that world, the criminal underground that he and a small percentage of our island thrive in, have that complex. Humanity is expendable to them, and they toy with fate just because they can.
My father is one of those men.
Always has been.
Twelve years ago, I didn’t understand why someone had broken in and shot Daddy. Why they left him on the floor in his office to bleed out from the wound instead of trying to get him help.
When he crawled from the east wing of our house to the kitchen, staining the carpet beneath him to the point where it would eventually be replaced with expensive polished wood, I didn’t know what was happening.
I was terrified. Of losing him, of his attacker coming back to finish the rest of us off.
Now, though, I get it. I’ve had a front-row show to the sort of things Daddy is involved in, and the company he keeps. I don’t know the specifics, but I’m aware enough to know Primrose Realty is hardly your run-of-the-mill investment firm.
Even if he tries his best to keep business separate from family, it bleeds over because the weight of evil is too much to contain.
Should I have left my attacker’s dead body with Jonas, knowing who he is and that he likely came by tonight with the express intent of trying to ruin my family?
Probably not. But what was I supposed to do, lug the corpse around myself?
I’m certain that anything I did with the body would only arouse suspicion. If they find it after Jonas disposes of it, Daddy’s much less likely to care. For some reason, homicide is common in his circle.
Kicking my Louis Vuittons to the corner of the room, I unzip my dress and shake out of it. The drapes in front of my windows and balcony door are drawn, so I hobble quickly to the shower in my en suite bathroom, pausing to look in the mirror hanging between the double porcelain sinks.
My chest grows tight as I take in the blood splashed across my skin. Tingles shoot down my spine, electrifying my nerve endings.
They say murder changes you. Fundamentally.
Makes you a completely different person.
As I step into the shower and scrub the evidence away, I can’t help but wonder what the indifference buzzing through my veins means.
“It’s okay to admit you were out for blood tonight, Ms. Primrose. I know I was.”
Jonas’s words from the balcony whisper down my back, goose bumps chasing their gentle caress. His violet gaze flashes across my mind, brilliant and striking as he looked right through me. Down to my core, eyeing the dirty soul I keep stuffed where no one can find it.
Not only did he find it, but he witnessed me at my most vulnerable and compromising. On my knees, covered in someone else’s blood.
And he didn’t even wince. Just stumbled upon us and accepted the situation as it was, albeit tauntingly.
Maybe that should unsettle me more, but for some reason it was sort of… comforting, being discovered like that. Like cracking yourself wide open and letting someone see the ugliest parts of you, and them not running away in fear or disgust.
Fascination seemed to spark in his gaze as he stalked around me, exactly like the predator everyone says he is.
I’m not sure what to do with the fact that it didn’t terrify me in the least.