Page 69 of Razors & Ruin

He puts me aside and strides for the steps to the trapdoor. I hurl myself at his ankle, sinking my teeth into it, and he shakes me away. I tumble onto the flags, tasting blood on my tongue.

Sweeney examines his broken skin and smiles.

“I love you too,” he says.

His voice is as calm as it was before, but there’s something colder, more final, in his eyes now.

“I’ve never held back before, not in the heat of the moment and certainly not in the face of betrayal. How you have bewitched my heart, Nellie. I’m as lost in you as you are in me.”

I shudder at his words. How twisted we are, how deliciously unique.

This love is too far gone, far deeper than anyone could understand.

What other man could whisper sweet nothings mere minutes after trying to kill me? Why would I so much as try to move on and meet someone else after experiencing such depraved intimacy?

“Sweeney?” I say gently.

“Yes, my pet?”

“Change your shirt. And take the cart in case you need to run.”

He nods. “Nellie?”

“Yes?”

“Stay here. I love you.”

The trap slams behind him, followed by the greasy squeal as he slides the bolt home.

And that’s it.

The bastard has locked me in.

35

Sweeney

When I arrive, the parsonage door is ajar, and I slide through the gap like a snake. The polite formalities of society have no place here.

I step into the dim hallway, lit only by a low lamp. The smell hits me first—oldness. Dust, parchment, gruel.

A meager life, but why? Undoubtedly, the man was paid handsomely for the terrible things he did. Perhaps it’s a facade to maintain the appearance of God’s humble servant.

My hand twitches toward the razor in my pocket. The handle is smooth and warm against my palm, like it’s alive, anticipating what’s to come.

I will enjoy making this disgusting man bleed for his crimes; even I, with my soul steeped in pain and degradation, never stooped as low as he did.

There’s a creak of floorboards in the distance, slow and deliberate. Sommers appears on the landing above, a bundle in his hands, his frame even frailer in the weak light.

Death is at the door, but he hasn’t knocked yet. A shame—he should’ve come by years ago, but I’m here now to make amends for his tardiness.

“Dear God,” Sommers exclaims. “Itisyou. I wasn’t sure this morning, but here you are. Currer Brook.”

The sound of my old name on his lips sets my teeth on edge. He fuckingrecognizedme, but from where? And is that why he was ready to flee, knowing I would come?

I dart up the stairs, pulling the razor from my coat. The old man can’t draw a deep enough breath for a scream, nor wheel around fast enough to run, and I shove him to the ground.

I stand over him, blade unsheathed, blood rushing in my ears.

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