Page 6 of Fractured

The whole time, my eyes don’t waver from capturing the emotions flashing across his gaze. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I have to agree because I know the moment his soul leaves his body. The moment his life finally comes to an end. The exact second I was able to take from him something he can never get back. It’s mine forever.

My body seems to siphon the energy that just left Scott. My nipples tighten, goosebumps erupt along my skin like a wave crashing onto the beach, my clit throbs, and there's a jittery sensation urging me to move.

My reaction to being drugged was nothing on how I'm feeling right now. This? This is what it's like to be high. Now I know why people find drugs so addictive. This is happiness, everything life is meant to be, in one simple hit. Too bad my special brand of drug comes in the form of murder.

three

I stand and gaze at Scott, studying him. His lifeless form is so peaceful in death. “It was self-defense. I had no other choice. It was me or him,” I say out loud, trying to convince myself that’s the truth. Who am I kidding, though? I could have just knocked him out and called for help.

That’s what a normal person would do. They wouldn’t insist on killing the person who tried to take control away from them. Who tried to steal something without permission! I know lots of women feel helpless in such a parallel situation, but would they actually go so far as to purposefully kill the person trying to rape them?

Actually, yeah they would. Okay. Good. I did something normal. It was self-defense.

Eventually, I notice my skirt is still bunched up around my waist. I smooth it back into place, rubbing at a few wrinkles trying to get them to release from the fabric. Just as I take a step toward one of the closed doors in hopes one of them is the bathroom, my phone rings.

Scott removed my clutch from my body while I was last passed out, having learned from his mistake the first time. It’s easy to find as I follow the ringing. The clasp securing the chain to the clutch has been unhooked on one side, and the whole thing is lying on the floor as if he unhooked the one side and ripped it from my body before flinging it away from him, allowing it to land wherever it may.

I quickly pick it up and find my phone inside. Making a mental note to find my taser, I slide my finger across the screen, answering the call. “Yes?”

“Remington, where are you? Vander said you weren’t at the estate when he went to pick you up. Today isn’t the day for you to be late,” Jen, my father’s personal secretary, worriedly questions me. Shit. Is it really morning already?

I sigh, not wanting to deal with this right now. “I’ll send him my location. Do you have an assistant at the estate right now?” I ask her as I walk toward the tripod.

“I do,” she confirms with a question in her tone.

“Good. I need you to send them to my closet and have them grab my long sleeve Dior dress. It should be clear which one I’m talking about once they see it. I’ll also need them to grab my makeup bag. Give both items to Vander to bring with him,” I instruct her, not bothering to explain further.

“But he already has the dress you instructed us to get for you last night,” she responds.

I eye the phone resting on the tripod and find that it’s still recording. You can see the whole room, including Scott dead on the floor. It caught the whole thing. I press on the button to stop the recording and return my focus to the conversation. “I’ve changed my mind, Jen. It suddenly doesn’t feel right. Just get my things to Vander and I’ll make sure I’m not late.” I try to keep the shortness from my tone, not being entirely successful, and end the call to avoid giving her any other opportunities to question me further. I’m not about to explain how I need to cover all of the bruises and marks left on my body from murdering my would-be rapist.

With my phone still in my hand, I click into the messaging app and find a bunch of texts from my mother’s driver, questioning where I am. I don’t read through them, instead I delete the thread before I allow his ineptitude affect me right now. I have bigger things to worry about.

Instead, I click on the thread with Vander. There’s only one new text, announcing his arrival to the estate this morning. He knows I’ll get to the car when I’m ready. He doesn’t hound me like some of the other staff we’ve had in the past. Vander and I have a system. He’s where he’s supposed to be when he’s supposed to be there, and I arrive when I damn well please. He stands silently close by when he’s guarding me in public. We don’t talk. Companionable silence is our thing, and we like it that way. Which begs the question: how did he know I wasn’t at the estate?

I quickly send him my location and enter the bathroom while I wait for his text that he’s arrived. The moment I glance at the mirror, I realize I’m more of a mess than I thought. My hair is frizzy, poofed out all over the place where it pulled out of the ponytail in the struggle. My makeup is smeared from the fake crying. And then there are smudges of blood in several spots.

I lightly pet the stain on my cheek. It’s a trophy of sorts. A mark, announcing I was the winner. I’m the strongest. My monster was the biggest, baddest guy around. I proved that nobody can take something away from me that I’m not willing to give. You could say I hold the most power in the room…

With a sudden thought, my lip curls in disgust. He better not have any diseases, or I’ll raise him from the dead and kill him all over again. Who knows where he’s been if he’s made a habit of raping just anyone. Fucking nasty.

I spot a pile of clean washcloths rolled up on a platter next to the sink. They’re intended to be used to dry your hands after washing them. I grab one and get it wet under the running water before working on removing every trace of his vile fluids from my body. I start with my raw cheek, wanting to make sure I clean the wound before the cloth is contaminated with his blood. From there, I wipe everything down. I even take off my clothes to make sure his blood didn’t make its way underneath them.

When I’m confident I’ve removed it all, I carefully take out my hair tie and pick up his comb. It’s not an ideal tool to detangle my hair, but it’s my only option. It’s slow, meticulous work, but after some time, I remove all of the knots. With my hair back to its straight, shining glory, I feel more presentable. Like I’ve gained some semblance of the control back that I lost while being drugged.

Wetting a new cloth, I rub at the black smears my mascara left behind. Too bad Scott doesn’t have any makeup remover. The cloth is soft, and I gently run it under my eye, keeping my movements in an inward swipe cognizant of not wanting to damage the delicate skin. No wrinkles for this gorgeous face.

When I’m done, there’s only a hint of the previous makeup that graced my features. I look raw. Vulnerable. Innocent. Not a good look for me, and completely inaccurate. I can’t wait for Vander to arrive with the tools to apply my mask once again. Applying makeup in just the right way helps give people the impression you want them to walk away. It helps me blend in, appear normal. I need that more than ever right now. Not to mention I need to hide the bruise and scraped skin.

I turn off the bathroom light and pause at the threshold of the bedroom. Scott is still lying on the floor where I left him. Arms sprawled out, legs bent like they froze in the middle of trying to push himself away from something. The cord is still wrapped around his neck. Honestly, I see no reason to remove it. His pants are pulled down with his dick hanging out.

Too bad he was such an asshole. I would’ve enjoyed riding that impressive cock. I shouldn’t still be turned on by thoughts of how it felt sliding against me, but I was already hyped up earlier, wanting to fuck someone tonight. Last night. Same difference. I have a desire that hasn’t been taken care of, and it just won’t magically go away.

I stride for the bed, not bothering to go around Scott’s body. Instead, I step right over him like the pile of garbage he is. I make sure to kick him in the balls while I’m at it. Maybe he’ll feel it in Hell. One can only hope. The mattress sinks with my weight as I climb on and quickly stretch myself over it. The covers are all rumpled from our struggle, and I have to smooth them out before lying back down.

Oh, how things could have turned out so differently. I try to ignore the anger radiating back, and instead focus on picturing Grayson. If my father is seeking to arrange a business marriage with him, then I might as well get used to thinking of him sexually. Closing my eyes, I picture his light brown hair with almost blond tips. A side effect of having spent too much time lately out on the family yacht. At least I hope that’s what it’s from and not purposefully bleached in the salon like I suspect. I really don’t want to deal with a high-maintenance husband.

His hair is longer on the top than the sides, perfect length for running my fingers through, and pulling. With tan skin, that I again hope is natural, and flashing green eyes, he commands your gaze whenever he walks into a room. All of his features are perfectly symmetrical, as if he was created in a test tube to attract every human around him. Male and female alike.

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