Page 64 of The Fire Went Wild

I keep going.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHARLOTTE

Ican’t believe how hot this man’s blood is, or how it coats my hands like thick, silky gloves. I drive the knife into his chest, relishing the gentle resistance of his skin and the dancing twitch of his muscles. He makes a sound like he’s had the air punched out of him and swings his arm around and grabs at the knife, his hands slippery. When he touches me, it jars me out of this strange, dreamy state I’m in and plunges back into reality:

There’s a man I’ve never seen before splayed out on the bed in front of me, one cut on his shoulder and the other on his chest. I made them.

“You fucking bitch!” he howls. “Who sent you?”

Somehow, I jerk the knife away, cutting his hand in the process. He shrieks but keeps reaching for me. I swing the knife, cutting his forearm. More blood. More curses.

A dark blur at my side. Jaxon.

Jaxon, who made me do this.

He leaps across the bed, moving unfathomably fast, and pins the man down to the mattress by his arms. I stumble backward, sliding off the bed, still clutching the knife.

My migraine pain flares, blinding me.

“Do you want to finish it?” Jaxon’s question centers me. Hismaskcenters me, those black empty eyes, the strange twisting metal that mirrors the musculature of a face. The antlers, sharp as daggers.

Yes, yes, I do want to finish it. I know I shouldn’t, but there’s a hot, driving lust inside my chest, not all that different from what compelled me to beg Jaxon to fuck me in the woods. My clit is on fire. Dampness seeps through my panties. Even if the more I think about killing this man, actually ending his life, the more my migraine tears through my brain.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

But also I feel strong and vibrant, like when I’m working on a new painting—butmore. More than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

“Charlotte.” My name is sharp on Jaxon’s tongue. The man, my victim, squirms and howls and kicks, but Jaxon is too strong for him, just like he was too strong for me when he put this knife in my hand and dragged me into this room. “I’ll finish it if you want me to. Even though it really should be you.”

I don’t know what he means by that, even though I agree. I need to push through the fiery pain in my temple and keep going, even if Iwantit to feel like someone else is making me move, like someone is forcing me to do this.

“Charlotte?” Jaxon keeps staring at me. “Do you want me to finish it?”

Numbly, I shake my head.

“What’d he do to you, honey?” the man’s gaze meets mine, and his eyes are wide and bright with fear. I like it, that fear. It makes me feel powerful.

What’swrongwith me?

“Don’t speak to her.” Jaxon hits the man’s temple with his fist, and the man sputters and jerks.

I want to feel his blood again.

I leap on him, my heart soaring, and drive the knife into his chest again, lower down this time. He makes a wet wheezing noise, and frothy pink blood gurgles up between his lips. I do it again. Again. He flops and convulses whenever I slide my blade into him, and his blood erupts whenever I pull it out. It’s everywhere. On him. On me. I reach up in irritation and pull my scarf away so the next time I stab him, I’ll feel the hot wetness on my face and lips.

I keep going.

Into his stomach. His side. Over and over. I think he’s still alive because he keeps jerking beneath me and making wet gurgling noises. It’s not until a strong, firm hand catches my wrist before I can bring the knife back into him that I’m grounded again.

“He’s dead,” Jaxon rasps into my ear, his voice ragged with lust.

And then I see it. The bright fear in the man’s eyes has vanished, and he wears the same vacant expression Jaxon did after I wrapped the chain around his neck. Everything is red. Everything is blood.

My migraine has vanished.

“Oh my god.” The knife slips out of my hand, and I sag backward, dizzy with confusion and disgust and desire all at once. “Oh my god. What did I—Why did I?—”

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