Page 93 of Cruel Riches

There was no way I was actually pregnant, because I had a tiny contraceptive rod implanted in my left arm. It was the last thing I’d tried out to get my monthly bleeding under control. While it didn’t work for that issue, it still provided protection against pregnancy, and it was active in my bloodstream for at least six more months.

Nate kept staring at me, doubt flickering in his eyes. I let out another moan and scrunched my face up again.

“Fuck!” I groaned. “It hurts so much.”

He crouched down to look at the bloody scraps of toilet paper. Then he looked at me again. “You’re not pregnant,” he said. “Even if you were, why the fuck would I care?”

He spoke with conviction, but I could see a flicker of worry in his eyes.

It might only be a few-day-old clump of cells we were talking about, but I knew it would still give him pause. Unless he was a true sociopath, knowing that he may have impregnated me would activate some primal region deep in his masculine brain, and he’d feel at least a shred of duty toward me; the same way most men felt when they were informed they were going to be a father.

“Please, Nate,” I whimpered. “Just give me some painkillers.”

“No.”

I conjured up some crocodile tears and let them roll down my cheeks. “Please… I can’t do this,” I murmured. “I know you want to hurt me, but I can’t… I can’t be pregnant. Not like this. It hurts too much.”

With a sigh, Nate finally relented. “Try to get up,” he said, stepping all the way over to me.

He held out an arm for me to grab onto.

“I… I don’t think I can,” I moaned.

“You can,” he said. His voice was stern, but there was a slight hint of tenderness there too. “Let me look at you.”

“Okay.” I let out another moan and squeezed a few more tears out. Then I reached my left arm out and let Nate help me off the mattress. His strong arms wrapped around my left side, guiding me to a standing position. He was so close that his face was only inches away, and I could feel his warm, minty breath on my cheek.

Close enough.

I straightened my shoulders and brought my right arm around to the front. In my hand, I held the knife I’d purloined from Nate’s bag the other day.

My nerves were electrified, and my vision was crystal clear. It was now or never.

Before Nate could even process what was happening or react to my movements, I thrust the knife into his upper abdomen. “Fuck you,” I hissed as I sank it deep.

His eyes went wide, and he let out a choked groan. His legs swayed slightly, and I gritted my teeth and dug the knife in even deeper, silently praying I’d hit the right spot between his third and fourth ribs.

In all my research over the years into murder and mayhem, I’d learned a thing or two about the best places to stab someone if you wanted them to die quickly. The very best spots were high up, like the back of the spine or the carotid arteries and jugular veins. Unfortunately, Nate was too tall for me to effectively manage that, so I’d chosen to go for the liver instead. Wounds to that area were fatal if they weren’t treated immediately.

“I guess you were right about me after all,” I murmured as I gripped the knife handle, twisting the blade in his insides. “I am a killer.”

He couldn’t blame me for this. He always went on about how I’d evolved into a monster during my search for answers for my father, but he failed to see that he was actually the one who’d turned me into a monster. He’d trapped me down here in the darkness with no dignity, no reprieve from pain, and no hope. That was enough to turn anyone toward terrible violence, if only to save themselves.

Nate reared back, wrenching himself right out of my grip. The knife went with him, still stuck in his abdomen. He sucked down air and dropped to his knees, wheezing. “You… you fucking bitch,” he spat out.

I watched him impassively as one hand weakly clutched at the knife handle. If he pulled it out like I thought he would, he’d do even more damage to his insides and hasten his death from internal bleeding. If he didn’t, he’d die slower, but he’d still die.

Either way, he was fucked.

“I knew I was right about you,” he muttered, staring up at me through heavily-lidded eyes.

“No. You made this happen,” I said, folding my arms.

He grimaced and took a deep, shaky breath. Then he slowly brought himself to his feet, still staring right at me. There was something so menacing in his eyes, so cold, that I took a faltering step backward.

“You’re fucked now, Alexis,” he said, clutching at the knife handle. His hand was surprisingly steady.

I shook my head and took another step away from him. “No. You are. You’ll be lucky if you live another three minutes.”

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