Page 109 of Fiery Little Thing
Fuck. Them.
If my grandma is here too, may she rest in peace.
As we slip further into the house, the pounding in my chest morphs into something twisted and fueled with bloodlust. A smile almost tugs at my lips as we check all the rooms downstairs to ensure they’re empty. With each room that comes up empty, the exhilaration becomes more intoxicating, as if I’ve caught a scent and I can already feel the flesh rip beneath my teeth. The thrill of the hunt, a predator chasing down its prey—it has to be the best part.
Jonathan Whitlock Sr. is going to die tonight.This time, the thought comes with a jagged edge of sadistic glee.
Kohen nods to himself when we find the control room that holds the security footage from around the manor, likely making a mental note to come back to it later. When all the rooms downstairs come up empty, we slip back into the main hall and inch up the stairswithout a single creak of the wood beneath our feet.
A Fabergé egg greets us as soon as we reach the top step. Kohen slips it into my duffle bag, no questions asked, then points toward the open door further along. A couple lamps are lit in the corridor, but light streams from only one of the rooms. If memory serves correctly, it’s my grandfather’s office. And if the silence that envelops us is any indication, he’s alone.
I hand my duffle bag to Kohen so he can stockpile it with sellable tokens to make up for my lack of place in my grandfather’s will. Kohen’s strong hand wraps around the top of my elbow before I make it further, and he drops his forehead to mine, enveloping me with his warmth. It’s a silent reminder that I’m not alone. He’ll be right there on the other side, waiting for me.
Kohen brings his face down next to my ear, rubbing our masks together as he whispers, “I love you.”
I love you too.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I still can’t bring myself to say it after all these months. I love him, and there’s nothing else that could be truer in this godforsaken universe. He deserves to know that at least one person in the world will always be in his corner. Even if he never heard the words spoken to him as a child, he’s still capable of being loved.
He needs to hear it just as much as I do. Still, the words don’t come out. I will always be a failure in some ways.
Kohen pulls away, leaving me in the middle of the corridor with the lingering remnants of his comfort to head toward my grandparents’ bedroom, where he’ll stockpile, then empty the gasoline canisters all over the house.
I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen as I look around theplace I could have called home, if only my grandparents loved me in the way grandparents should. Maybe I would have smelled my grandmother’s baking and learned my cousin’s first name. Maybe I’d have discovered whether my uncle looks like my mother in real life or just in photos. I could have played dolls on the stairs or done a twirl as I descended toward my prom date who I’d have two-and-a-half kids with. I might have even bought a house in this area and stayed home to raise children while my husband has one too many “late nights” at work.
But none of those things has or will ever happen.
My mother may have started her life in this hell, but she ended up on the streets. On the other hand, this kind of life with private chefs and maids isn’t a life I’ll ever be familiar with. Now I have a roof over my head, food in the cupboard, a human heater to keep me warm through the night. Safe. Consistent. It’s more than I could’ve ever asked for. I’ve even been talking to Sue on the phone every week since I left the motel—last month we went down to have dinner with her too.
Money doesn’t equate to happiness. No amount of land will keep a smile on my face. Kohen fell off the social ladder the day he picked me, and I’ve never seen him so at ease… and happy—even if he’s had to learn how to live without a maid and a cook.
This type of life with glitz and green would have turned me complacent. My claws would always be retracted, and there wouldn’t be any fight in my veins. I think that’s what differentiates me from my mother, because all I’ve ever known is darkness. One day, I hope she figures out how to break free from my grandfather’s chains and know what freedom feels like. I just won’t be the one to help her.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the mask off and tuck it into mypocket, then stuff my gun into the other. I stretch my neck from side to side, biting the inside of my cheek at the rising wave of anxiety. It’s now or never.
The floorboards don’t make a sound as I pad along the rug, slipping into his office before I get the chance to hesitate or tip him off. Neutral-toned cushions line the window seat, and various awards and sporting memorabilia decorate the white walls of his office. The place has a modern touch with the white leather couch against the wall, and the big glass table that faces the middle of the room, contrasted against the soft Persian rug beneath my boots. Paperwork, ledgers, and various journals are scattered around his desk and on the floor. There’s no color here, just a series of whites and grays. It’s as bleak as he is.
My grandfather doesn’t notice me at first. He looks so human like this; sitting at his desk in his vintage brown dressing gown, with his face shoved into both hands as if exhaustion has made a home in his bones. It’s surreal seeing him in the flesh with his guard down. Growing up, I’d usually see pictures of him online, and he always looked as foreboding as he does in person. But right now, he looks like he’s just a man.
An empty man. Cold, ruthless, and undeniably human.
This is the moment I’ve been looking forward to for the past six months. Not only six months, for all my life. Now that I’m here, I don’t know how I should feel. There’s a glimmer of anticipation for my impending liberation, but beyond that and the anxiety… I’m not sure. My hatred for my family has driven me for the past few months, and it’ll drive me for years to come.
Once my grandfather is gone, there will no longer be a physical manifestation to direct my anger; rather it will evolve. I’ll tear himdown out of anger, and prosper out of spite. I’ll make sure he’ll turn in his grave and carry his regrets on his shoulders as he descends into the fiery pits.
Most of all, I want to move on. Get this shit over with because I’ve already spent a lifetime suffering under my grandfather’s thumb, and he doesn’t deserve another second of it. For months now, I’ve been looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment he turns up and drags me into his version of purgatory.
I’ve never felt powerful in front of him, but right now, for the first time in my life, I do. I have things that make me happy. I have consistency, emotional connection, and all the physical necessities. He can’t control me anymore.
My heart pounds as I breathe in the scent of sandalwood, feeling cold sweat bead between my shoulder blades. The grandfather clock ticks in the corridor, counting down the seconds until the man before me meets his maker.
He controlled me. Tormented me. Manipulated me. Abused me. When he reaches death’s door tonight, he can tell them that he created the weapon that caused his own death. After all, I’m the demon he made me to be.
Jonathan Whitlock Sr. pulls his hand down his face with a muffled groan. Before he can spot me, I say, “This isn’t how you should spend Thanksgiving.”
His blue eyes snap up to mine. “I was waiting for you to show up,” he says as if he was expecting the trash to drift in on a breeze. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You—”
