Page 190 of Exposé

Hayes.

Bushfield.

Voss.

His body twitched, jerked, struggled.

The cuts ran together now, a grotesque tapestry of pain and retribution, each name written in blood, each stroke a memorial to the fallen.

His muffled howls vibrated in his chest, raw and primal, echoing off the walls. But I wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

I ran the blade lower, carving the last name deep enough to scrape against bone.

Barlowe.

His body sagged with a twitch, his knees soft, his fingers flexing, then hung limp.

The silence stretched.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

His blood hit the floor, puddling beneath his toes.

I stepped back, my hands slick with sweat, my ribs screaming, then grabbed the bottle of whiskey he kept on the sleek glass bar cart.

"No better friend, no worse enemy." The words came out hoarse and truer than ever before. My throat tightened, the pressure building, an unbearable thickness sitting right beneath my ribs. I took a swig, the whiskey burning a path down my throat, doing little to wash away the raw tightness in my throat. "Isn't that what we always say?"

My jaw clenched as my vision blurred, a single tear slipping past my defenses, burning hot as it traced down my cheek. I swiped it away, furious, but it didn’t change the hollow space growing in my chest.

I exhaled a long and heavy breath and dug into my small bag, tearing out the matches within, then moved the pre-doused vodka waste bin beneath his limp frame.

"Send it."

Striking the match, I tossed it into the bin—the papers bursting into flame.

I took another swig, the liquor pooling in my mouth before I swallowed it down. Gripping the neck of the bottle, I smashed it against the rug. The glass shattered, the liquid spreading fast, soaking deep into the fibers.

The heat climbed, searing against my skin as the fire raced up his legs, curling around his waist, reaching for the rope. My breath hitched, something thick closing around my throat as I forced my feet to move.

One step.

Then another, my focus set forward, never looking back.

38

Ava

Sweat trickled down my temples as I moved through the small market, the sun beating down on my back, where my loose cotton tunic clung to damp skin. My sandals kicked up dust, covering my toes. Colorful cotton awnings flared open along the street’s edge, their canopies casting patchy shade over the vendors’ faces.

Beside me, a skewer of chicken sizzled, the fat dripping onto glowing coals. A vendor stacked banana blossoms onto wooden crates. I'd tried one at the behest of a local the first week I arrived. She'd tossed it into a stir fry, and I devoured it as though I'd been starving.

All around, kids laughed, voices rose, in a language I'd worked my ass off to learn—cutting through the sticky, spice-filled air.

---