Page 55 of Anorthic Anarchy

She gasps, holding a bright orange Cheeto between two fingers. “And I slaughtered them.” Her young skin wrinkles with worry.

It makes me laugh riotously. My arm stretches across the back of the sofa as I tickle her shoulder with my fingertips. “Angel, you can’t feel guilty now. You said no one touches what’s yours, isn’t that right? And they had it out for you, anyway. Five dead whores here or out there…wouldn’t matter. Hell, most days, I considered doing what you did. Thank you for the favor.”

With a look of disgust, she tears up. “How can you be so callous? Just not even care that those women you bedded are all dead now?”

Fury rises within me from her not understanding my nature. Still. She needs toknowme. And that we’re the same. Scrambling off the couch, I kneel before her as she tries to scoot back. My hands trap her face and hold her steady so she’s forced to gaze into my eyes. “Because I never cared about anything except revenge. And now you.”

“Revenge for what, Vincente? What happened?”

Maybe my expression mimics her saddened one because some heat fills my eyes. “I loved someone. And she was taken from me.” Standing, I walk to the far wall and look through the floor-to-ceiling port window. After days of rain, the sun lights up all the colors of the changing leaves. But snow threatens the sky on the horizon.

My fingers dig into my scalp as I scratch it, then rub where I’ve touched. “I-I’m getting confused about who the real enemy was.”

I jolt as she wraps her arms around my waist and presses a cheek to my back. “I’m sorry. Who was she?”

As if in a trance, I confess. “My mother.”

The only thing that awakens me from my flashback is her palms slipping as if she’s going to move away from me. I snarethem and unleash the burdens onto her, only to watch her crumble under their weight. To run away from me just so I can fuck her while she does.

Spinning, I grip her arms hard, hoping she’ll fight me off. “I gather we didn’t have anormalrelationship. No, I made love to my mother every night since I was sixteen. Even before that, it was blow jobs in the catacombs. And hand jobs during homeschooling.” Her blue eyes widen at my soliloquy, but she doesn’t attempt to escape. Louder, I say, “Ifuckedmy mother. We were in love.Carnally.” She isn’t moving, just staring at me with tears streaming down her cheeks. So I shake her violently. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, I?—!”

“Vincente, I hear you.”

“You fucking pity me? Is that what your flushed cheeks are about? Are you disgusted?”

She sobs and shakes her head, biting her lip to contain something, some unspoken word. But I rattle her one more time and snarl, “Is thatit? Got nothing to say now? Are yousorryfor me?”

“No. I’m not.” Taking a pause, she gathers a shaky breath, then spits out. “I’m furious.” My eyes check back and forth between hers, but she’s being truthful. The little girl is angry.

Sheisa reflection of me.

My knees weaken, and I drop to them, still clutching onto her but by her waist now. I press my cheek into her belly and scream. It’s primal and fueled by the rage of confusion and years of torment. Things I never wanted anyone to know or have to understand. Because even I don’t.

She slumps to the ground with me and wraps her arms around my chest, then climbs onto my lap and rocks us. Back and forth, so slowly that I lull back into a stunned silence.

Burrowing my face into the crook of her neck, humid air from my mouth paints her skin until I lick it off. “I want vengeance.”

With her soft lips pressed over my ear, she whispers, “Then consider me your angel of death.”

Chapter 22

Astrid

My gut churns with nausea as Dilan helps me dress. The red silk she slips over my head makes me look older and hugs my skin tightly. With the heart neckline just above my bosom, it looks more shapely. It catches on the loop of my collar for a moment before she gently untangles it and lets the fabric drape to my knees.

Bending in front of me, she holds out a tall heel. “Foot.”

Lifting it, I balance while hovering my hand over her shoulder as she ties the leather straps up one leg, then the other.

When she fusses with my hair, brushing it back for me, I glance at her in the mirror. “Dilan?”

“Yes?”

“Are you angry with me?”

She slows the strokes with her brush, then picks up a hair iron and gathers up a thick strand to straighten. “No, Mrs. Strauss. I’m not angry with you. I’m not entirely sure why you’d even ask the question.”

Pushing out a painted red lip, I blurt out, “Because I wondered if you always wanted to be Mrs. Strauss. And you’re not.” Perhaps it’s the boldness that comes from becoming amass murderer. But fear seems like a foreign concept now. It’s something that I don’t think I’ll concern myself with anymore.

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