Page 70 of Heart of a Villain

She heard Rafael snort.

Then, just as he went to spit, she punched him in the eye. Directly in the eye. It was such a direct hit that she felt the moisture from his eyeball coat her knuckles.

As he tried to rise to his feet, she rushed him and tackled him back down to the ground, her hands wrapped around his neck. He went for her face, but she caught his fingers between her teeth and bit down with the full strength of her jaw.

He howled.

She scratched at his eyes before punching him, repeatedly, until blood spurt from his nose. When that wasn’t enough, she spotted a nearby rock, grabbed it, and rammed it against his skull, her brain releasing all sorts of feel-good chemicals wrapped in revenge each time he cried out.

“Die.” She struck. “Die. Fucking die. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I hate you. Die. Fucking die.”

He stopped moving, stopped screaming. Tears and snot dripped from her face onto the bloody surface that was once his.

“I hate you.” She tossed the rock, choked again. “I hate you. God, I fucking hate you!”

“Querida…”

“I fucking hate you!”

“Sayeda…”

Screaming, she released his neck and planted both fists on the ground, the loose soil causing them to sink in. Cries followed, filled with agony and rage, each noise shrill and piercing the quiet night. Instead of being concerned about this bastard’s life, all she could think was that she hoped she didn’t wake any of the kids, especially little Tiare, who probably wasn’t letting her parents get any sleep.

“Sweetheart?”

She looked over.

Adrían was stooped next to her, holding the shovel. “Come,” he said. “This part is over.”

Before she stood, she spat a slimy stream of saliva onto Rafael’s lifeless body. It took her a long moment to look away, to verify that he was no longer breathing, and she turned to find Adrían digging a hole at the base of the red ribbon tree. He wore another ribbed tank, so the moonlight highlighted every contraction of his musculature the deeper he dug.

“Did you know he was coming?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“You let him go.”

“I did.”

“It wasn’t too soon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked over. “Good.”

The digging resumed.

Once the hole was deep enough, he retrieved a pair of gloves from a bucket she hadn’t seen. Before he handed them to her, he examined her palms and fingers. Whatever spots of blood he found, he wiped them away with a damp cloth, also retrieved from the bucket.

“The gloves aren’t to hide evidence,” he explained. “They’re to keep any more of his blood from getting on your hands.”

“And what about yours?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he helped her put them on.

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