Page 27 of A Kiss of Deception

"Stay with me," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. I'm not sure if I'm asking her to stay in this room, or in my life. Either way, the answer is the same.

She tilts her head up to look at me, her dark eyes shining with a resolve that takes my breath away. "I told you I'm keeping you," she promises, sealing her vow with a soft, lingering kiss.

14

MEETHA

The door creaks open, and I freeze. Milkor's hand on my back urges me forward into the dim interior of my childhood home. The stench hits me first - copper and bile. What had happened here?

"Jarvil?" My voice quavers, betraying the mixture of anticipation and dread churning in my gut.

A wet, gurgling sound answers from the kitchen. I round the corner and stop short.

Jarvil sprawls on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, remnants of a violent confrontation etched into his features. His eyes roll wildly, landing on me with a flicker of recognition.

"You..." he chokes out.

Seeing the gaping wound across his abdomen, my mind races. "What happened?"

His lips move, but only a raspy wheeze escapes.

Milkor's low voice rumbles behind me. "You said there was a woman." Then he turns his gaze to my father.

"You should've been more cautious, Jarvil," Milkor murmured, his silver eyes scanning the room, seeking out the source of the violence. "Where is she?"

Jarvil's gaze darts to the bedroom door, hanging slightly ajar. Understanding dawns.

"She did this to you?" I ask, unable to keep the hint of satisfaction from my tone. My father manages a weak nod, his face contorting in pain and fury.

As I lean closer, my voice drops to a whisper. "Good."

The metallic tang in the air fuels my resolve. I rise, my gaze hardening, as I see a candlestick in the kitchen. My fingers wrap around it, a silent promise of retribution.

Approaching the bedroom door, each step is deliberate. I sense Milkor following close behind. The door creaks under my touch, revealing a sight that sets my blood boiling.

There she is, the woman my father brought home, her back to me as she greedily fills a bag with his stolen fortune. Her tattered clothing suggests desperation. Desperation often turns people into monsters, doesn’t it?

She’s oblivious to my presence, too consumed by her own greed to sense the danger lurking behind her.

Time seems to slow as I watch her, my grip tightening on the candlestick. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of coins clinking against each other. Each clink is like a hammer blow to my resolve, reminding me of every moment of suffering, every bruise, every hungry night.

The rage that has been simmering inside me for years begins to boil over. It's a living thing, clawing its way up my throat, demanding release. I feel my muscles tense, my body coiling like a spring.

In this moment, I see not just this woman, but every person who's ever taken advantage of the weak, who's ever hurt someone simply because they could. I see my father. I see myself.

The candlestick feels heavier in my hand, its weight a promise of retribution, of justice long denied. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I take a step forward, then another.

I grip the candlestick tighter, rage simmering within. "Fucking thieves," I hiss.

Before she can utter a sound, I swing the candlestick with all my strength, connecting with a sickening thud. She crumples to the ground, blood trickling from a gash on her head, pooling around her like a crimson halo.

I watch, breathless, as life ebbs from her eyes. For a moment, I see my own recklessness reflected in her desperation. It's intoxicating, yet terrifying.

The moment of reflection is short-lived. I drop the candlestick, the clang echoing in the stillness.

Milkor’s voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone laced with approval. "You've done well, Meetha."

The copper scent of blood is stronger now, drawing me back to the kitchen where my father lies dying. His breaths are shallow, each one a rattle that echoes off the walls of our small home. I approach him, my footsteps heavy with the weight of my actions.

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