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)
“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.