Page 39 of Marriage and Malice

The black mask he wears slips but not enough for me to recognize the man trying to kill me.

“Fucker.” I duck inside the man’s reach as he swings again.

I slam my fist into his side, pain blossoming in my hand as he goes stumbling back.

Advancing on him before he has a chance to recover, I grab his wrist and force the knife out of it.

The man groans as I grab the back of his head and drag it down to knee him hard in the face.

Blood pours onto the cracked concrete as he stumbles to the ground.

As I pick up the knife from where it fell, my pulse is pounding.

To say I’m getting sick of the attempted assassinations is an understatement.

I stab the man in the chest, feeling the warm blood against my fingers.

He sputters, looking up at me with glassy eyes through the small hole in the mask.

“Fucking bastard.” I pull off the mask.

My chest constricts as I stare down at the face of a man who used to be like an uncle to me. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

I throw the mask on the ground, my stomach lurching.

This is yet another reminder that getting close to someone is a bad idea that will get you hurt. It’s also a reminder that all I’m ever going to be is the monster who kills people.

There is no hope for a man like me.

With a sigh, I run my hand down my face, considering what to do with the body. While I know that I should have my cleaning crew handle this, the darker part of me wants to show Zoe what this life is really like.

She’s been too comfortable in the past week.

And though I want her to be comfortable in my home, I don’t want her to be comfortable with me.

I hate the way the lingering glances and casual touches make me feel.

I know that she isn’t doing it on purpose. She’s a touchy person. I’ve seen as much from old interviews of her when her dad was rising to power.

There are some days when she looks at me like I’m not a monster.

Maybe Zoe needs a reminder.

I take off at a quick jog to my car before driving back over to the body.

It takes a few minutes to load the body into the car. I try not to look at his face as I do so, wanting to remain as detached as possible. There are no more old relationships.

He was like an uncle to me and then he tried to kill me.

I did what I had to do to survive. I can’t blame myself for that.

I drag out the cleaning supplies I keep in my trunk.

In my mind, a silent little mantra keeps playing as I erase blood from concrete in the dark of night while the rest of the trainyard works.

It was kill or be killed. And I’m not ready to die just yet.

Once the blood is as cleaned up as it can be, I pack up the supplies and get in the car.

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