Page 91 of Wicked Little Secret

I want to witness the way Nyssa’s features round with sheer shock and watch as she struggles to stitch together an explanation.

An even darker part of me aches to reach for one of the knives in the immaculate kitchen and lodge it straight into his throat. The barbaric urges are far beneath me on any other occasion, except situations such asthis.

Sometimes, in situations such as this, it’s justified.

Voices sound from outside the door.

They’re home.

The door sweeps open and Jackson Wicker ushers Nyssa through in the middle of telling her about his last yacht trip in the Maldives.

She’s as poised and complimentary as expected, giving a soft hum of interest. His hand falls to the small of her back to guide her deeper into the spacious floor plan of the penthouse.

I’ve chosen to hide out of view after all.

Curiosity overtook rage, at least for the moment. At least until I understand what the hell’s going on.

“Didn’t I tell you no one would see us, darling? Theprivate entry is very discreet. It’s for us VIP residents. Allows us to have very secret, very naughty visitors over.”

Nyssa merely casts him a polite smile, her gaze borderline vacant as if to give nothing away.

“How about I pour us some drinks, darling, while you freshen up?” he asks. “Don’t forget what we agreed. You know what I expect.”

The corner of Nyssa’s mouth twitches, almost disrupting her pasted-on smile. “How could I forget? I’ve been waiting for you.”

It’s then that I notice she has a small overnight bag with her. Jackson guides her toward the hall—again, with his damn stubby-fingered hand at the small of her bare back—and he directs her to where the bathroom is.

“In the bedroom, darling,” he says. “Use the ensuite. I can’t wait to see you all dolled up.”

Nyssa humors him with a small giggle, then disappears down the hall.

Jackson Wicker starts toward the minibar that’s set up against the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

While his back is turned fixing drinks, I slip the skeletal mask back over my face and step out from behind the sectional sofa.

I stalk by the kitchen and pluck the largest knife from the wooden block perched on the counter. Jackson turns half around, speaking to himself aloud.

“Where did I put that corkscrew? Ah, yes. Here it is.”

The oaf, who’s as slow-witted as his jock son, turns all the way back around again. He adds ice to both glasses and then digs in his blazer pocket for a little baggy of baby blue powder. I recognize it at once as Euphoria, the same substance I’d planted on his son only a couple weeks ago.

The contents of the baggy are emptied into the drink on the left.

Nyssa’s drink.

“For some added fun,” he guffaws.

The same oafish guffaw as his son.

My grip tightens on the large kitchen knife I’ve grabbed.

For another unpredictable second, I almost rush him from behind. I’d love nothing more than to ram the blade into his back. Then his skull. Then any other part of him as he collapsed and looked up at me, dying.

But too many questions remain unanswered.

Questions like what the hell is Nyssa doing here in the first place? What is about to transpire between her and Mr. Wicker? Has she been sleeping with her ex-boyfriend’s father all along, or is this some new development? Some kind of revenge ploy?

I creep from the kitchen, sight unseen. Mr. Wicker’s now mixing the cocktails he’s made in his stainless steel shaker. Nyssa’s presumably still in the bathroom ‘dolling’ herself up. I enter the master bedroom that’s about as large as the living room area. A king-sized bed sits in the middle, along with a reading nook by the window and balcony.

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