Page 66 of King of Ashes
Good God, I think I’ve fallen in love with her anew.
“Where can I watch from?” she asks, and I show her the door set into the wall across the room.
Once she’s inside, I approach the cage. “You wanted to steal from me. You wanted to claim what is not yours and never will be.” I click my tongue. “That has a price.”
It’s not as fun playing with someone who has no hope. Hunting implies the prey believes it has at least a chance to escape.
“If you find the way out, you’re free.”
The one who threatened my wife looks gobsmacked. Even the stupidest men have a self-preservation instinct.
“I give you my word.”
I press the button on the side. The doors swing open, and the three cockroaches scamper in different directions. While they indulge in the illusion of escaping my wrath, I press a panel on the wall, revealing an arsenal of weapons. I pick up knuckle bars, a gun, and a dagger, preparing to hunt.
The intricate labyrinth hides a plethora of dangers, sensors activating walls that switch to thick, spiky wires. I hear the first man hissing and follow the sound. A piece of his shirt clings to the tip of a spike, and I find him in a dead end, pacing and grabbing his hair like the cornered animal he is.
I make no sound as I approach him, and in one rapid move, I wrap my hand around his neck and dig the dagger into his side,twisting the knife. He howls in agony, painting a smirk on my face.
I shove him off, and he slides from the blade, clutching the oozing wound as he thumps to the ground.
I stare at him for a few seconds as he gurgles on blood. Red surrounds him like a bloody Pollock painting.
“Rest in hell, asshole.”
Moving to the next one, I play with his mind, tiptoeing and then thudding. He snaps his gaze around like a headless chicken.
“Where am I?” I ask, breathing against his neck before retreating, letting the walls swallow me again.
“Show yourself, you fucking coward.”
He’s the one shouting in fear, yet he’s insulting me. I guess I do have a petty streak because I sprint to him and snap his neck.
He drops to the ground, lifeless, blank eyes staring back at me.
What is Zara thinking? That one question haunts me as I hunt the last of the pack.
16
ZARA
In the control room, I watch the cameras, entranced, as he chases the three men, as skillful and deadly as a predator. I can’t peel my eyes away, even when I witness the brutality he’s capable of.
He murders them one after another with such ease that it’s astonishing.
It draws me to him rather than repels me. If I think about it, every word he said to me carried weight, carried meaning.
He takes his time, enjoying the hunt while I enjoy him.
Yes, he would absolutely kill without remorse. He’s an expert killer in custom-made suits.
When he pursues the third man, I know this kill will be different, and I wait with bated breath, not wanting to miss a single moment. It’s in the gleam in his eyes, the smirk plastered across his face as he reaches him, revealing his brutal intentions.
The bastard drops to his knees, pleading.
Vian yanks him up by the neck and backs him against the wall, slamming his head into it. The wail tumbling from his mouth reveals the spikes embedded in his back, red flowingdown the white wall in a painting of death, the contrast as jarring as it is fascinating.
“Strip,” Vian says, his deep voice in control.
