Page 1 of Burning Beauty

Prologue

"Kill me!" Marc screamed. "Go ahead and stab me you stupid little bitch."

Maria lurched back, away from her attacker. She wanted to sink to the floor and curl up in a ball but was terrified if she did, he'd hit her again with the fry pan he'd grabbed from the sink moments earlier. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. She hoped there wasn't any permanent damage. He hit her two times with the pan, or maybe it was three. She didn't know.

What she did know is that she was bleeding profusely from the head and she felt dizzy and nauseous. When she looked down to where he dropped the pan there were dents in it that weren't there before. He did that. He dented it on her head.

After the second or third blow she'd reached desperately out, hoping to find something she could use to defend herself. Her fingers had closed around the handle of a kitchen knife. A fillet knife. It was sharp and deadly. She knew, because Marc loved to cook and kept the knives in perfect condition.

"You think you're so fucking tough, go ahead and slice me up bitch."

Marc paced back and forth in front of her, gesticulating angrily and yelling at her. Maria's ears were ringing, she could barely understand what he was saying.

Earlier in the evening they'd gone to a family function together, a quinceañera. It had been Marc's niece's 15th birthday. As his fiancé, Maria had a hand in preparing for the celebration. She'd been proud and grateful to be included in Carmen's big day. The celebration had gone without a hitch, they'd been having a wonderful time, singing and dancing, showering the birthday girl with gifts. Then some of Marc's friends showed up with more gifts. Marc and his buddies started drinking, things got ugly. Embarrassed, Maria insisted on leaving early and Marc left with her.

He yelled at her the whole drive home and once they arrived, his verbal anger spilled into physical and he began hitting her. It wasn't the first time, but it was the worst by a long shot. Usually, he slapped her a little or pushed her into a wall when he was angry. Maria wasn't the type to back down, she would yell back, get in his face. The fights always escalated.

Maybe she should have seen this coming. But then, why would she? She was marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in their tight-knit community. He had money and reputation. She was one of the lucky ones. To go from dirt poor, just barely scraping by, to becoming Marc's adored fiancé. Life should be good. She told herself they were a passionate couple, excused his behaviour and hers.

Now she was facing the man she was supposed to marry in just a few months, a knife in her hand and blood streaming from a head wound.

"Marc, stop!" she begged him, but he kept advancing, screaming at her to go ahead and stab him. "Don't come any closer, please Marc!"

He lunged toward her, and she held the blade up to her chest, the handle pressed tight against her sternum, the point straight out. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, expecting to feel his fist meet the side of her face.

She felt the knife jolt and then nothing. No more yelling, no more movement.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. The first thing she saw was his chest, filling her vision. Then she saw that the tip of the knife had disappeared into his shirt, just over his heart. There was no blood though. Had the knife actually gone into his flesh?

Maria looked up into his eyes. He was looking at her strangely, as though the knife at his chest was suddenly sobering him up. He reached out, his arm swinging toward her. She flinched, but he only curved a hand around her head.

"Maria," he said, his voice sounding distant and weak. She didn't know if it was because her head was swimming from the blows or if there was something wrong with him.

Then he started to fall. Marc wasn't a huge man, but definitely bigger than Maria. She let go of the knife and tried to catch him. The knife clattered to the floor beside them and Maria clung to Marc, trying to hold him up. But he was too heavy for her, so she helped him to the floor in a controlled fall. She leaned over him, her long dark hair brushing his white shirt and his now pale face. He was blinking rapidly and trying to focus on her.

Again, he cupped her head, pulling her down toward his face.

"I'm sorry, Maria, shouldn't have hit you." His words were low and slurred, but she understood.

"It's okay, Marc, don't worry about it." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Just tell me what's wrong. Can you do that, baby?"

"Can-can't breathe."

She gripped the front of his shirt and yanked on it, trying to tear it open so she could see the wound, but the fabric wouldn't rip. She yanked his bowtie, pulling it away from his throat and then undid several of the buttons so she could shove his shirt to the side. What she saw made her blink and run a hand over his chest, there was the tiniest of cuts with only a paper-thin line of blood. Hardly anything. There had to be a bigger wound somewhere, but as she searched him, she realized it was the tiny cut causing him such pain.

By now Marc's face was nearly white, twisted in pain and he was struggling to breathe.

"Marc, I don't understand what's wrong," Maria said, clutching him desperately. "Talk to me, tell me how to help!"

"Love you, Maria." She had to lean close to catch the words as they left his mouth. Seconds later his last breath followed, caressing her cheek as he blinked his eyes closed for the last time.

Marc Carrero died in Maria's arms, lying on their kitchen floor, only the tiniest of cuts having pierced his heart and killing him.

* * *

"Not guilty."

Maria slumped in her seat as her verdict was read out loud, relief razing through her like acid burning in her veins. She didn't know if she deserved to find relief in her situation or if she deserved to rot in hell for what she'd done. She took a life. She committed the ultimate crime. Did it matter that she hadn't meant to hurt anyone, that Marc's death had been a terrible accident?

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