Page 25 of Vetted for Vengeance
These are all clean, perfect, not stored like tools, but displayed like something important. He has the means to clean and sterilize the surgical implements used downstairs, and I think I've found their hiding place.
My fingers hover over them, but I don’t touch. Not because I’m scared, but because I know exactly what they’ve already touched.
The pressure in the room shifts. Not a sound, just a presence, drawing my attention from the perfect row of deadly implements to the man now filling the doorway. His arrival doesn't make me jump; it makes me want to smile.
I don’t turn immediately. If he had wanted to stop me, he would have. He’s watching.
“You shouldn’t go through my things.” Rhys's voice calls from the doorway.
“Then don’t leave them where I can find them.” I glance up, smiling so he knows that I know what these are. If he wanted secrets, he should hide them better. And then I slide the drawer closed like I don't care.
Chapter fifteen
Rhys
Noah is… unsettling.
Not in the way danger is unsettling.
This is quieter than that. Worse.
Most people avoid eye contact with me the moment they understand what I am.
Noah studies me as if I’m a puzzle. Like he expects there to be an answer.
Like he believes I can be understood.
He is perfectly at ease here. I'm a killer. I know that, and he knows that. But he doesn't care. I guess it's only one step up from knowing what the brothers were doing. I'd like to think I'm better than those two men. Sure, I kill, but my choice of target must mean I have some kind of moral compass.
I remove people who hurt others.
That counts for something. It has to.
Otherwise, there is no difference between me and them. And I refuse to believe that.
“I'm going to ask you for a number. How many?” Noah speaks clearly and slowly. “When you're ready, I'd like you to answer.”
The room goes quiet. The kind of quiet that demands an answer. Not immediately. But eventually.
He doesn't fill the silence.
He's clear, but not pressuring. It's sweet. He thinks he's giving me space, options. Freedom to decide if I answer, but really it's a test. Not of my honesty, but of my willingness. If I don't answer, he'll think I don't trust him.
I don't. I don’t trust anyone. That has kept me alive this long.
But I'm willing to give this time. Whatever it is, wherever it goes, it needs time.
Time to get over this destabilized feeling. Time to decide if the urge to reach for his face is because I want to snap his neck or stroke his cheek. Both feel equally possible.
I have never struggled to tell the difference before.
I don't want to kill him, but I do want to see fear in his eyes. Fear would make this easier. Fear creates distance.
Distance creates control.
Without it… things blur.
I haven't seen his fear yet. Not when I drugged him, not when he woke up in my secret murder room. Not even when I walked in and revealed myself.
