Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
There’s no way he could’ve known about my conversation with Kate today. I didn’t tell anyone I planned on letting her know I was leaving. It’s possible my ghost is aware of my upcoming marriage to Finn, and a part of me thinks this gesture is about that.
Like he’s congratulating me. Or marking his territory. Or sending some other impossible-to-interpret message.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, waiting for a response. There’s nothing. “I had a really hard day today, but this helps.”
I put the flower in a thin vase with a little water and stare at it for a few minutes, wondering if my future husband will treat me the way my ghost does, with this strange obsessive reverence. But I really doubt it.
Chapter 5
Cormac
The pimp crawls away. His hands and knees scramble over the cold, wet concrete. In the near distance, a police siren wails. But it’s not for me.
“Please, don’t,” he groans, looking over his shoulder. Blood drips from his broken nose. His right wrist is bent at a strange angle. Broken clean through. It must hurt like hell, but his adrenaline’s keeping him going.
I stalk toward him. I take it nice and slow, trying to savor the kill. Trying to find some feeling in my cold, bitter heart. Only there’s nothing.
Which pisses me off to no end.
Normally, jobs like this light a spark. It’s never a roaring fire, but at least I get a glimpse and a taste of what it’s like to feel.
Instead, I’m cold and almost bored as the idiot pimp bangs straight into a dumpster.
He groans and rolls onto his back, grabbing his head.
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” he complains, staring up at me as I loom over him. “I swear, I didn’t. Ask anyone. I’m a soft hand. I’m good to the girls. Ask them all, I swear it’s true. I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear.”
“I believe you.”
Hope blooms on his face. “Then you don’t gotta do this, right? I can—I can—I’ll fucking pay. I’ll go into debt! You’ll see, I’ll earn my life back, you’ll see! I swear it—”
I step on his neck. He makes a sickening eckkkkkk sound as I shove my boot down. He thrashes and punches and kicks, and I twist my hip and grind my sole into his skin, making him flop and jerk.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I lean into it. Fuck this and fuck him. The pimp makes a pathetic keening noise, a high-pitched scream, as he tries to suck in air. I crush him, break his windpipe, and finally stomp down hard enough to crack his neck.
He’s dead a minute later. His corpse stink mingles with New York’s already fetid reek.
Still nothing.
“Fuck,” I say, leaning back against the alley wall. I dig my fingers into my hair, tightening my grip. “Fuck!”
I’m teetering on the edge. I know how wrecked I am right now, and I can’t stop myself. Because I can’t even feel it as I spiral into hell.
I snuck over to her house yesterday. In the middle of the goddamn afternoon. I nearly got caught twice and was lucky to escape alive. It was a stupid risk, one I’ve never taken in all these years, but I had to do it.
I needed her to know.
I’m thinking about her.
She’s mine, even if she marries my fucking brother.
Except I can’t touch her. I won't touch her. Not my saint. My light-as-a-feather. I’d only soil and ruin her and destroy all her goodness, and I can’t live with myself if that happened.
But I also can’t live with myself if I let her marry Finn.
He’s a good man. I know he’ll be kind to her. Maybe he’ll cheat and fuck around, but he’ll treat her well. He’ll give her what she needs and let her have a good, happy life. There won’t be love, but who fucking gets love these days? She’d be taken care of and respected. That’s a damn good life for most women in her position.
Only I’ll rot from the core of me. I already feel it starting.
I jam the pimp’s corpse into the dumpster and leave him there. I shove my gloves into my pocket and scrape my boot on the curb. Not my best kill ever, but it’s done. I find my car a block away and climb in.
I’m not thinking as I drive to Hell’s Kitchen, the heart of my family’s power base. I slowly roll to Forty-Seventh Street and park out in front of a shitty little rundown Irish bar called Finnegan’s Anchor. The glass out front is stained green and the door’s painted black and gold. I haven’t been inside in a few years, but Finnegan’s is a popular haunt for Whelan Clan members. Which is exactly why I avoid it.
I get out of the car, thinking about her. Did she like my gift? Was she happy to get her Chapstick back? Did she smear it all over her pretty mouth? And was she thinking of me as she did it? Fuck, I wish I could’ve seen the look on her face. I wish I could’ve smelled her, kissed her, pinned her down and filled her to the fucking brim and watched the ecstasy in her eyes peak and peak and peak, except I never will.