Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. I set down my spoon very carefully.
“That’s an interesting dinner conversation choice,” I observe.
But Leroy is warming to his theme, apparently mistaking Saylor’s silence for weakness. “Poor bastard.” His laugh is like broken glass. “Should have seen his face when he realized he was going to die.”
Saylor’s knuckles are white around her spoon. I shift slightly in my chair, ready to intervene if necessary, but something in her actions—or lack of actions—tells me to wait.
“You want to know what his last words were?” Leroy leans forward as much as his restraints allow. “He said—”
The carving knife is in Saylor’s hand before Leroy finishes the sentence.
“I know what he said,” she says with deadly calm. “I was there when you killed my father.”
She drives the blade straight through Leroy’s hand, pinning it to the armrest with a wet thunk that booms through the dining room. Blood spurts immediately, painting the white tablecloth in abstract patterns that would make an amateur painter jealous.
Leroy’s scream tears through the dining room, all his aristocratic composure cracking like expensive china. The sound bounces off the chandelier and seems to multiply, filling the room with harmonic agony.
“Oops,” Saylor says conversationally, but her face has gone completely white. “That looks like it hurts.”
She’s gripping the edge of the table now, her knuckles white as she stares at the blood still pumping from Leroy’s impaled hand. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow something back down, and I can see the exact moment nausea hits her.
Come on, love, I think, watching her jaw clench with determination. You can do this. Fight through it.
She takes a shaky breath, closes her eyes for a second, and I think she’s got it under control. Good girl. That’s it. Show them what you’re made of.
But then Leroy jolts in his chair, and the movement sends a fresh spurt of blood across the white tablecloth. Saylor’s eyes snap open, focus on the crimson spreading like spilled wine, and her face goes from pale to green.
“Oh shit,” she whispers.
I’m already lunging forward when she starts to topple, catching her just before she can plant her face in the butternut squash bisque.
“Hans,” I call, lifting Saylor into my arms. “Keep our guests company. I’ll be back shortly.”
“What about his hand?” Jack asks, staring at the blood still dripping from Leroy’s impaled appendage.
“What about it?” I adjust my grip on Saylor, her head lolling against my shoulder. “Consider it an appetizer.”
I carry her from the dining room while Leroy continues screaming things like, “You fucking psycho bitch!” and “I’ll shove that knife so far up your ass you’ll taste steel!”
Hans’s voice follows us up the stairs as he tries to console our guests. “Is not so bad,” he’s saying in his thick accent. “Lots of blood makes everything look worse than it is. Here, try some bread. Very good bread. Wren makes from scratch.”
The screaming stops abruptly, replaced by muffled sounds of appreciation.
“See? Much better when mouth is full of carb.”
I push open the door to my bedroom with my shoulder, carrying Saylor across the threshold like some twisted version of a wedding night. She’s starting to stir in my arms, her eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks.
My bedroom is the one space in Maison Rouge that’s purely mine—no guest accommodations, no consideration for anyone else’s comfort. The walls are painted deep charcoal, the furniture is all mahogany and leather, and the massive four-poster bed dominates the space like an altar to hedonism.
I settle Saylor onto the black silk sheets, smoothing her hair away from her face as she slowly returns to consciousness. When her eyes finally focus on mine, there’s something new there. Something darker.
“Did I really stab him in the fucking hand?” she asks quietly.
“You sure did. I’m proud of you.”
“I think I’m going to be sick again.”
“Perfectly normal reaction. Violence takes practice.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “How do you feel about it? The stabbing, not the nausea.”
She considers this with the serious attention the question deserves. “I think knives might not be my thing,” she says finally. “All that blood. God, what kind of wannabe killer says blood isn’t their thing?”
She sounds genuinely annoyed with herself, like she’s failed some sort of basic life skill.
“It’s honest.” I lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. “And Leroy deserved every inch of that blade. Every killer has their own way, love. I choose the axe, some choose a gun, some choose—”
“No gun,” she says quickly. “I actually want the kill to be drawn out.”
“See? You already know what you don’t want. We’ll figure out exactly what your style is. No need to rush it.”
“I feel like the worst student,” she says with a frustrated sigh. “Like I’m getting an F in murder.”