Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
He wants a quick end.
Rage rides me hard, but my mind remains sharply calculating.
I keep my movements slow and controlled as I withdraw the hunting knife from its sheath at my belt. His eyes widen, and he shrinks back, despite his obvious desire to die.
“You shouldn’t have spoken about her like that.” My voice is coolly detached, almost as though the words are issuing from someone else’s lips.
I’m lost to my cruelest urges, and the imperative to protect Abigail hones my focus until its sharper than my knife.
My free hand shoots out, my fingers clamping around his jaw. He screams in agony as the insides of his cheeks tear against his jagged teeth. It’s easy to grab his tongue and yank it out of his mouth. I sever the muscle with one quick swipe of my blade, and his wail of abject horror soothes my roiling emotions. His hot blood courses over my hand in a cleansing stream.
I step back, and he clutches at his ruined mouth with his one remaining hand. He tries to babble for mercy and nearly chokes on his own blood.
I take a long minute to watch him, savoring the mortal panic that makes his pale blue eyes roll in their sockets.
He’ll never speak another threat against my wife. He’ll never touch her.
My righteous rage is satisfied, and calm settles over me.
The blade flashes silver through the darkness of the cramped shack, nicking his artery. Blood sprays my face, but the satisfaction that heats my chest is even hotter than the splatter.
Billy collapses onto the dirty floorboards, writhing and gasping as his life slips away. His feet drum against the wood in a desperate, useless attempt to flee the inevitable.
After a while, he goes still in the pool of his own blood, utterly silent.
The threat to Abigail is eliminated. She’s safe, and I’m at peace.
I’ll never tell her the gory details of what I’ve done to Billy, but she will accept his death as a necessity. She accepts me for all that I am, and she trusts in me to protect her. I will do all the dark things necessary to ensure that she’s blissfully content for the rest of her life.
I promised to give my wife the world, and she will want for nothing.
22
ABIGAIL
Iunlock the door to enter my gallery, already missing Dane. He left to run an errand only half an hour ago, but I feel his absence like a missing limb.
My addiction to my husband is definitely unhealthy, so I’m resolved to manage my Sunday on my own.
The catering crew did a good job cleaning up the gallery after the grand opening last night, but I still want to check the space for myself. I could wait until Monday, but I’m excited to spend more time building my new business. I sold eighteen paintings after my confrontation with my mother. I have some bookkeeping and delivery logistics to manage before I can devote a day to my art again.
I smile to myself. It’s a wonderful problem to have.
I can still hardly believe that people want to buy my art. I’ll gladly deal with paperwork as a result.
I step into my office at the back of the gallery, but I don’t quite manage to turn on the light. Rough hands grab me from behind, one clamping over my mouth to smother my shocked cry. Something sharp pierces my neck, and the horribly familiar sensation of soporific drugs oozing into my system makes panic spike through my heart.
“We need to talk, little Abby.”
Uncle Jeffrey’s low growl follows me down into darkness.
The darkness persists when I open my eyes. I blink hard, struggling to process the fact that I’m conscious. I lift my hand in front of my face, but all I see is inky blackness.
Then the dank smell registers, stirring a scent memory.
I’m nine years old again, and I’m trapped. The ghosts of my older cousins’ laughter echo through my ears. I stretch out my arms, and my fingers connect with the cold, thick metal door.
“No!” I moan, shoving against it. The lock on the outside rattles, and the door doesn’t budge.
My cousins shoved me in here and secured the aged lock. They told me that ghosts of Yankee soldiers haunt these cells beneath Elysium. An icy finger trails down my spine, one of those ghosts brushing against me. Their malevolent aura surrounds me, and my chest tightens to choke off my scream of abject terror.
I scramble wildly in the confined space, my nails breaking against rough bricks that surround me on three sides, squeezing me into a tiny box. There’s not enough oxygen in here. I can’t breathe.
My fists slam into the door, and a metallic boom resounds through my haunted cell.
“Let me out!” My voice is high and thin. “Let me out!”
The grate on the door screeches as it slides open, and a small square of yellow light sears my eyes.