Page 99 of Wicked Vile King
"She doesn't have a collar on!" Cross attempts to protest, reminding me of the thing in my back pocket.
"You've seen it. You know she's mine."
"It's not there!"
"And that makes what you're about to do to her, okay?" I ask, my tone intentionally calm as I run a finger across the armrest of the chaise, feeling the smooth leather give a little against the pressure.
I've had my suspicions. Anyone paying attention on campus has, I think, but Cross turns a blind eye to my bullshit. He didn't report me last year when he caught me sneaking around in Administration, peeking inside student records, and he didn't send me to the hole either.
"I thought we had an arrangement," I say with a smile that makes him frown. "I have my pets, and you have . . . whatever it is you have. I didn't tell Headmistress when I walked in on you fucking the sophomore."
He thinks it's an accident, him being caught in the uncompromising position. It wasn't. I waited and watched until I caught him with a girl young enough to be his daughter. It was disgusting, but she was lucid and appeared willing at least. This is even worse.
He pales. "Now, I don't know what you think you saw. . ." he begins as I advance toward him again. He backs away toward the bookcases, and I circle the chaise and follow him.
I'm less than three feet away from him now, and the pussy is looking around for a weapon. Dumbass can't find one in his shitty office, especially on the side surrounded by books.
Fucking idiot.
"I know what I saw," I tell him, cocking my head, daring him to deny it again as he starts to panic. I taste his fear in the air, cutting through the sharp bite of my rage.
"You touched what is mine, Cross," I say.
"I . . ." he begins, but I don't let him utter the rest of his sentence. I stab the pen straight through the side of his neck, right through the jugular I'm guessing, by the amount of blood spraying everywhere like my life has become a goddamned horror movie.
He falls to his knees as the dam holding back the worst of my wrath breaks. I stab the fucker.
In the eyes.
In the chest.
In the abdomen.
Everywhere I can reach.
The pen slips from my grasp as he gurgles on the floor and tries to get away, somehow still lucid enough to know he needs to do that. He crawls, staining his shag ivory rug sanguine.
I kneel, picking up the pen, and watch him as he slowly crawls, the gurgling growing louder and more wet by the second. I stand, take two steps, and lodge the pen in his back between the vertebrae.
He screams or tries to at least. His mouth opens, but what escapes is a wheeze as I stand, all of me shaking. It's not fear that makes me shiver. It's adrenaline and the high from spilled blood.
Pet.
I turn my attention back to Willow, dropping the pen again as I walk back to her. She's still asleep, and I slap her on the face, leaving a bloody handprint behind.
"Wake up, Willow," I tell her with a little shake. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
She grumbles but doesn't open her eyes.
Fuck.
I look at the dead doc's desk. There's a vial there, on top of the papers. I grab it and read it.
Oxycodone hydrochloride.
Motherfucker dosed her on opiates? Christ.
Everyone knows from one look at her that she hasn't taken anything that strong since they stitched her back together last year. She isn't a recreational user. She isn't built for this shit. The strongest thing she takes for a headache is an ibuprofen.
