Page 127 of King of Ashes
I can hear her labored breathing from the other side, counting the seconds until she walks inside. She takes longer than expected, giving me the impression she feels a smidgen of guilt, even though I am not blaming her. This woman could try to kill me a hundred times, and I couldn’t stop loving her. I am wired that way.
I hold in a breath as she walks inside, coming to an abrupt stop.
“What the—” she gasps, looking around, contrite.
I release the breath I was holding, a smirk taking its place.
Her purse slips from her hand, and like a madwoman, she hurries to my side of the bed, yanking at the covers and throwing the pillows as if I somehow hide under them.
“Surprise,” I say, stepping forward to reveal myself.
Bent over the bed, she freezes, her arms suspended in the air before she spins around. She sends me a death glare, appearing like a goddess of wrath. The image only makes me burn hotter for her.
Her gaze flits to the purse lying on the floor just a few feet away. I am closer to it, and with a sprint, I reach it and dump the contents. I grab the gun she has stashed inside just as she reaches me.
She pokes me in the same place she shot me, and a wave of dizziness hits me, causing me to stumble back. I grasp the gun in my other hand, lifting my arm so it’s out of her reach.
Swiftly unloading the magazine, I step onto the balcony and dispose of every cartridge.
Hot on my trail, she breathes like a dragon calling upon flames.
“Here, wife.” I offer the Glock to her, but she just stares at it.
“You’re alive,” she murmurs, thick emotion lodged in her voice.
I shrug, placing the gun at the back of my pants, and mask my true feelings. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
The wound bleeds, red coloring the crisp white shirt. She stares at the blood coating the fabric, then she averts her gaze. “You tricked me. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Erasing the inches between us, I slip my fingers under her chin, forcing her to look at me. “You tried to kill me. I doubt you won’t try again.”
On closer inspection, I notice heavy bags under her eyes. Her face is pale, and her shoulders slump as if she wants to curl into herself. “Whatever, Vian. I am done,” she says, walking away with a despondent posture.
I follow her, puzzled by the change from the woman who tried to kill me to the one who simply wants to walk out of my life.
“Giving up so easily on killing me?”
“You wouldn’t die anyway, just to spite me,” she grumbles and presses the button of the elevator, but it doesn’t blink.
“We’re in lockdown.”
She turns on her heel and gnashes her teeth. “Let me go.”
“Can’t do that.”
“You fucking asshole.” She takes off her heels and throws them at me in rapid moves. One flies past my face, the sole brushing my cheek while the other hits my thighs with its pointy heel. Fuck, her aim is impeccable.
Hiking her pencil skirt up her thighs, she sprints toward me and jumps into my arms, taking me down. I drop onto my back, hitting the ground hard. Damn, I think my stitches reopened, and I let out a groan of discomfort.
She lands on top of me with her palm on the entry wound. The red spot widens, and when she lifts her hand, it carries a rosy hue from my blood.
She stares at it in horror. This is the woman who wished for my demise? I doubt it, considering she shot me because I startled her rather than as part of her plan.
“I thought you wanted my blood on your hands.”
She thrashes in my arms, clawing at my skin to draw my blood to calm her demons.
I don’t move, just let her tire herself while hitting me, aware I hurt her. To appease her, I’ll spend my existence paying her pound of flesh. I’d endure the center of hell just to have her.
