Page 77 of Beautiful Savage
The metal stairs don't echo under my weight as I climb toward Hallstein's office. My hand finds the knife again, fingers tracing the blade. This is the one that matters.
Inside Hallstein's warehouse, I watch the office from the shadow of a stairwell, blood cooling on my sleeve. The man is exactly as I left him a decade ago: perfectly groomed, one of those jawlines that was supposed to mean authority, but always looked better suited for a mugshot. He pours bourbon and stares at his phone, waiting for the call he thinks will save his kingdom. He has no idea the war is already over.
I fixate on the details. The way he rolls the glass in his palm, like a gambler with dice. The tiny tremor in his left hand. The phone screen, cracked at the corner, showing a family photo.
He's reading something on the laptop when I push open the office door. The hydraulic hinges let it whisper wide as I step into the fluorescent light. He glances up, eyes glassy and sleep-deprived, and it takes two full seconds for his brain to register my face. He blinks, then flicks his gaze to the desk drawer on his right.
It's the only move he's ever been capable of—the lunge for hardware, the desperate try at control. I almost want to let him reach the gun, just to give him the illusion. But I cross the distance in three strides, the rage in me so clean that every motion feels weightless, already rehearsed.
"You," he says, and the word is part accusation, part plea.
I slam him back in the rolling chair and pin his elbow, my left hand flattening the arm against the cheap laminate. My right has the knife, pressed to his carotid in a heartbeat. He goes rigid, pupils blown to pins, all that old confidence draining out like bad oil.
"You're not dead," he manages, trying to smirk.
I lean in, breathing his cologne and this other note—stale sweat, the kind that sheets off a man who knows he's prey. "Not for lack of trying," I say, and smile so he can see all my teeth.
He grits his jaw, and with an almost comical flash of bravado, jerks his chin up. "You can kill me, but one of my men will—"
"Not interested in your speech," I cut him off. "You know why I'm here?"
He works his mouth. "You want money? I can give you more than you ever dreamed of. You can take the car—"
I almost laugh. I want to tell him what I really want is for Daphne never to have stepped foot in this town. But that's not how revenge works. It's always about past debts, never future wishes.
"Try again," I say, and tap the knife gently against his throat. A line of red blooms under the blade.
His breath catches. "The women? This is all about those damn women? Their husbands and sons killed our men, ourbrothers, and you want to avenge them? They were wartime enemies. Our fucking enemies."
"Wrong. They were women."
I press the knife deeper into his fleshy throat, and a fat bubble of blood slides down his neck.
"That girl, that Gilles girl, I can let her free if you—"
"That girl," I echo, low. "The one you had tied to a chair. The one you ordered to be hurt."
He tries to bluster, but I see the calculation flare in his eyes. Even now, he's looking for an out, a trick, some angle he missed on the first pass. He tilts his head and tries the old condescension. "If you think this scares me—"
"I don't," I say, and open his cheek with a quick cut, just enough to bleed but not to kill. "But I want you to know I'm not here for the money, or power. I'm here for all the women you've hurt. I'm here for Daphne."
He sputters, the blood running salty down his jaw. "They're whores! You're risking your life for—"
The next motion is pure instinct. My hand clamps his mouth, and I pull him forward, forcing him to look at me, dead on. "She's the only thing in this world that's ever mattered," I say, and my voice is so soft I almost don't recognize it. "You hurt her. And now, you get to find out what that costs."
For a moment, he's silent. There's something almost like understanding in his eyes now, as if he's finally seeing the real end. The hand with the knife moves so fast it's a blur in the air. The blade slips in behind his jaw, up under the chin. He gurgles, and I cut sideways, severing the carotid. Blood splashes across the desk, soaking the bourbon, the laptop, the photo of his family.
He tries to talk, but only bubbles come out. I lean close, watching the life fade, and say: "You could have had a better death. But you picked the wrong woman."
He dies sloppy and scared, slumped in the chair as his blood pools on the tile. I wipe the blade on his shirt, then pocket it. I grab the phone, the laptop, anything that might matter to Logan, and toss the rest. I don't linger. There's no point. The place is already crawling with the rot of his legacy.
Outside, the sky is still dark gray. My hands shake as I text Logan: Done. The reply comes in under a minute.
Logan's response:Camille secured. At the recovery facility. Stable. Dossier will release on schedule.
Nine years ended, but all I want is her.
The drive back to La Sirena becomes a battle against my own body. Without the rage to fuel me, everything crashes at once, and I know there's no chance I'd make it all the way to Pristine. Vision graying on the Turnpike, making me grip the wheel to stay centered. Her phantom hand on my thigh is the only thing keeping me conscious. That touch she gave me, that permission I ran from. My throat's so dry it hurts to swallow. The headache spreads from my eye across my skull.
