Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
That flash of anger rushes through me again. A current so strong, I can barely contain it.
I want to punch him, to shake him, to hug him, then kick him and fucking…ask him why? Why the fuck did he leave me?
Just why?
How could he do this to me?
But I can’t ask him that, because he’s gone. All I can do is kill.
I guess I felt like Preston did when he bashed that teacher’s head in.
Liberation.
Actually, as I slashed the face of the man who pulled the trigger, as I crucified him on a tree and carved PRES on his chest with a knife, then littered mango candy all over him, there was no liberation.
No feeling of satisfaction.
There was only emptiness and the reminder that Preston is gone.
That’s when he appeared—as the sensation of emptiness grabbed hold of me. He was leaning against the tree, flashing me his dimpled grin. “Butchered your first job by leaving so much evidence behind, Osborn. Also, that’s such messy writing. Can anyone even read those letters? No one but me would hire you. Aren’t you the lucky one?”
But when I reached for his ghost, he was gone.
So I thought maybe I felt empty because that gunman was just a contract killer, as per Dad’s words. The one who needs to pay for Preston’s death is the one who ordered the hit.
Marguerite Armstrong.
Preston’s grandmother.
She wanted to kill Violet because she’s her husband’s illegitimate daughter, but those details don’t matter.
What matters is that Preston died because of her, and she had the audacity to sit at his funeral wearing a straight face.
That woman took away my Preston and needs to pay what she owes me in full.
That’s why I’m in her house.
Apparently, Lawrence exposed her and had her kicked out of the Armstrong mansion, so she’s been in this house in suburban New York.
Being excommunicated isn’t enough.
Even dying isn’t enough.
I stare down at her as she sleeps soundly, her face stretched tight, and she’s releasing small wheezes in the deafening silence.
How dare she sleep after she killed her own grandson?
Though he did say she called him crazy.
That’s reason enough for her to die.
I lift my gloved hand wrapped around the knife and shove it down, stabbing her in the eye. She screams, jolting awake, reaching, and flailing, but I stab her again—this time in the other eye, then pull it out.
Killing feels like nothing.
Just like everything else feels like nothing.
The only thing that felt like something was ripped out of my fucking hands because of this woman.
The only person who could pull at my heartstrings and make me feel alive is now gone, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with my life anymore.
I can’t go back to the way life was before him, because I don’t remember it.
I don’t want to.
“You called him crazy, huh?” I ask in a monotone voice as she keeps letting out long, shrill screams.
I cut off her fucking lips. Slice, slice, slice. Then I shove the soggy, bloodied skin down her fucking throat until she gags on it, her screams muffled.
“Can’t call him crazy now, can you, old hag?”
Stab.
Stab.
Stab.
She stops screaming after a while—dead, I think. What a drag. She should’ve lasted a bit longer.
That doesn’t mean I stop, though.
I straddle her, slashing her face, her chest. Anywhere I can reach.
I’m drenched with blood that goes into my eyes and on my face, my clothes.
Everywhere.
Doesn’t matter. I’m in a trance, unable to stop as I slash her entire body the fuck up.
“So…violent.”
My lips tremble at Preston’s soft voice, but I don’t look back at him, and I don’t stop stabbing.
If I do that, he’ll disappear.
But I feel him.
His hand wraps around my throat from behind as he whispers in my ear, “Kind of hot. Scratch that, it’s really hot.”
“If I keep killing, will you come see me like this?”
“Maybe.” His lips brush my ear. “But you need to take care of yourself, Marcus. It isn’t like you to be this blasé about your conditioning and your hockey career. You have to feed this beautiful body properly. Also, don’t worry June endlessly. You know I don’t fuck with June.”
“Don’t go,” I whisper for what seems like the thousandth time. I feel like I’m always asking him to stay, and he just…never does.
“I’m already gone, Marcus. Accept that, okay?”
“No—
My head jerks up, but Preston isn’t there anymore.
There’s no warmth, no tight embraces where I always felt that he craved me, and that was the only way he knew how to touch me.
Instead, my eyes collide with Jude and Kane, who are dressed in black gear.
Jude’s holding a gun and aiming it at me. I think he said something just now, but I didn’t hear it.
I cock my head to the side, grinning. “Took you long enough. I got a little…impatient.”
“Get the fuck out of here, Osborn,” Kane says, standing in front of Jude as if, what…? To protect him or me?