Page 69 of Spice and Revenge

But the only thing I have on me at the moment is the stolen uniform I’m wearing and a bloodied dagger in my pocket. My money, my phone, and every important thing I would need for survival is in my dingy motel room.

Just then, I hear the faint roar of a car vehicle. I whip my head across the road to see a taxi approaching. No sane taxi driver would want to pick up a random woman who has blood all over her body in the early hours of the morning. Well, good thing he doesn’t have a choice.

I stand in the middle of the road, waiting for the car to get to me. A part of me wishes to be crushed by the incoming vehicle. The other part of me wants the car to stop so that I can get to the motel before anyone finds me.

As I’d expected, the yellow cab slows down before stopping before me. Except, the driver doesn’t care that I might be trying to commit suicide.

“What the hell are you doing in the middle of the road?” the driver yells, poking his head through his window.

I silently march to the passenger's door and pull it open before slipping in.

“What in the world do you think you're doing, lady?” the middle-aged man grunts in anger.

Turning to either push me out of his car or rain insults on me, his blue eyes widen as he takes in the dried blood on my face and hands.

“W-who are you?” he stammers again.

Even though he’s holding the steering wheel in a vice-like grip, I can still see his body shaking.

Slipping the dagger out of my pocket, I drop it between us.

“Drive,” I command, holding the dagger over the center console.

I recognize the fear that flashes in his eyes as he shakily turns on the ignition.

The car ride is the most silent I’ve had in my life. That is exactly what I need. Silence.

The car drives through the not-so-familiar streets, until finally, we approach the rundown neighborhood of the motel.

“Stop here,” I hiss, two blocks away from the motel.

The driver more-than-willingly obliges, the car screeching to a stop. I step out of the car and slam the door behind me. A part of me feels guilty for traumatizing the innocent driver this early morning without paying him, but I am overcome by desperation. I am a woman on the run for her life.

As I jog down to the motel, I manage to wipe some of the dried blood on my face and hands. Some stubborn patches are still left, so I free my hair from its tight bun, letting the long strands cascade down my face like waves. I slip my bloodied hands, along with the dagger, into the pocket of my oversized pants. The oversized pants belong to a man I killed.

The receptionist on duty is clearly not a morning person. She dozes once, and hits her head against the desk, before raising herhead and adjusting her glasses on her face. Her eyes meet mine. Whatever she sees makes her look away.

Once in my room, I hastily stuff my things into my duffel bag and sling it across my shoulder. Only as I open the door to leave, Leo stands outside, a gun leveled at my forehead.

My heart hammers in my chest as I back away slowly from him. My legs feel weak, and for a second, I’m afraid they won’t hold me up any longer.

“Leo,” I manage, throat tight.

He doesn’t answer. He just walks into the room and shuts the door behind him. His brown eyes are dark, like midnight, as he stalks towards me, like a hunter stalking his prey.

“How many times did you try to kill me?” His voice is deep and emotionless. It makes my heart thud harder.

“Leo, please, let’s talk—”

“Answer. The. Damn. Question!”

“Once,” I reply, forcing the word out.

He chuckles humorlessly. “So, your uncle sent you to kill me, and you only tried once? You expect me to believe that?”

I don’t say anything, because I know he won’t believe me anyway.

“And when was this?” he asks again. His jaw flexes as he clenches them. “When was the one time you attempted to murder me?”

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