Page 8 of The Hand that Frays

The drive back to the hotel isn’t far, but Lyla will be livid with me when I get there. Then again, she might be so revved up that things get interesting before we leave for our red-eye flight.

I grin as I throw the car in drive and speed toward the run-down motel we found on the side of the interstate.

She will be confused and wonder why we’re deviating from our plans here in the States, but I think it’s time for me to take the reins back. It’s time to show my stupid girl who’s in charge.

I made her, not the other wayaround.

While it’s been fun watching her bathe in blood and wade in darkness all these years, it’s my fucking turn.

I haven’t felt the urge to maim in so long that I thought myself broken for a bit, broken by the very woman that I can’t quit.

Half of me even gave over to the idea. Because who would I be without my stupid girl?

I can’t kill her.

I’ve tried.

A sickness in me feeds off her presence and her very existence.

So, I thought I’d have to resign to being by her side while she killed. While she carried out the justice of others.

Sometimes, she killed for fun, which I didn’t mind.

My crazy love is wild and free, and I love to revel in her insanity while my cock thrusts through her tight, warm…

You’re getting carried away!

I shake my head free of the thoughts warring in it and adjust my dick as I enter the parking lot and find the empty spot in front of our room.

Room 147.

Where my Lyla is waiting for me, and where I will see how far she’s willing to go to stay beside me.

When I saw Anne Hatt on the news, a switch flipped.

I needed her blood to coat my skin.

I wanted to hear her gurgled cries of agony as much as I wanted to watch the light go out in her eyes.

A thrill raced through me at the idea, and I found the first connection I could in this podunk town to get fake papers and booked Lyla and me a ticket to London, England.

I open the door and drop the manilla folder on the bed.

I don’t have to look for Lyla; I know where she is.

Stepping into the bathroom, I flick the light on.

She winces, her eyes covered in running mascara—now dried—looking up at me.

“Mmm, you look fucking beautiful,” I tell her.

She’s half-standing, half-hanging from the shower rod, cuffs biting into her wrists.

Stepping into her, I run my fingers over the marks the metal is creating, my breathing growing erratic as I hear her whimper at my touch.

“Neo, where did you go?” she asks.

I detect fear in her voice and close my eyes, letting the feel of its fingers rake through my broken psyche. I love it when she’s afraid, especially if it’s me she’s fearful of. Not that my fractured girl fears much anymore.

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