Page 32 of Hell Hath No Fury

I frown, and humor dances in his eyes as I ponder his words’ implications. Regardless of what has happened, evil people never truly grasp the duplicitousness of their own actions. There is no accountability or responsibility for the terrible things they’ve done. He truly believes he saved me. He doesn’t see that he has kept me a prisoner, a dark secret hidden from my own reality.

And then he asks, “Are you going to try to escape?”

I raise my brows at him and then sigh. “What would be the point?”

He smiles, his hand reaching out and touching my shoulder lightly. “Good girl.”

This time, pushing down my urge to flinch and curl my lip in disgust is actual work. I’ve never really wanted to be a good girl.

I glance at him briefly and then close my eyes, folding my arms up over my chest, as I take on the most serene pose I can come up with.

For me, mania is a silent companion. It twists inside of me, poking holes in the cool, calm, and collected mask that I wear so well. The deeply offended part of me wants to lash out. To beat him to death with my fists before he even realizes what is upon him.

His hand touches my shoulder again, and I roll to face him more fully. His hand strokes along my collarbone, and I grasp it with my own, pressing his palm against my chest. I open my eyes to find him staring at me, and I smile. “What are you looking at?”

He returns my smile, and when I tug his hand, he slides closer, his other arm tucking up under his head like a pillow. “I’m looking at you, Mrs. Petrova.”

I roll my eyes, my smile turning teasing. “Come on, now, we know that’s not my name.” I close the distance between us, slowly sneaking my arm beneath his where it’s placed under his head. I’m slightly surprised that he still seems relaxed, but I keep my expression soft and my tone playful. “No point in playing games now.”

He laughs heartily and nods. “My apologies, Ms. Moreau.”

Anger twists in me, shooting through my guts as mania ricochets inside of me. And suddenly, I understand exactly what the Chameleon meant by the ultimate revenge being the soulless betrayal of the person you feel you can trust the most.

This thought is what has me sliding closer.

What has me pressing my breasts against his chest.

What has me pressing my lips against his, licking at them, demanding reciprocity.

He hesitates for only a moment, then my arm slides fully beneath his so my hand is touching the back of his head, and I raise myself slightly on my elbow, my top leg bent with my footflat on the mattress, as I half crawl over him as if I’m going push him onto his back and straddle him. I move slowly, languidly, my eyes burning with the fury of a thousand deaths as I drag my lips across his cheek, my heart pounding in my chest furiously, adrenaline roaring through me.

I press my lips against his ear, my chuckle dark and throaty. “My fucking name,” I pause, waiting for one second, then two, wanting to make sure he’s listening before adding angrily, “is Hughes.”

He immediately tenses, but it’s too late.

I launch myself behind him, my leg wrapping around his middle, my chest pressed against his back, my arms locking around his neck.

And I fucking squeeze.

He attempts to thrash, but I’ve got him locked, and all he manages is a few twitches, like a fish left to die on a river bank. I squeeze harder, torn between wanting him dead now and having fun making him dead later.

After a thirty count, I release him, wasting no time before rolling off the bed, yanking open the drawer on the bedside table and rummaging around for the sedatives I know he keeps there.

I grab a handful of prefilled syringes, a couple of zip ties, and a switchblade, turning back toward him just as he starts to stir, groaning softly. Scurrying back onto the bed, I uncap a syringe between my teeth, my hand coming down just as he rolls over, his furious eyes meeting mine the same time as his arm swings over, knocking me backward.

I land hard on my back, sliding onto the floor in a heap, and I roll backward, coming to my feet in one motion as he lurches in my direction somewhat haphazardly.

I click the switch on the knife, slashing out as he meets me, cutting along that line where his neck meets his shoulder. Heflinches, jerking away at the last second, but I jump after him, stabbing viciously into the side of his neck.

He yelps in pain, his eyes wild as he grabs onto me, twisting and pushing me back. My calves connect with the mattress, then my knees, and I sit, the momentum of his body knocking me flat, and my arms flail, ripping the knife from his neck.

He comes down on top of me, blood splattering along my face and neck. I grab his front with my free hand, stabbing him in the side as I brace my feet on the floor, using my tenuous leverage to force him off the side of the bed.

I come to my feet in one motion, immediately reaching for the weapon he keeps under his pillow, the cool metal comforting in my grip. Turning, I find him crawling toward the bedside table. I lunge for him, the butt of the gun coming down on his face.

He collapses, and I curse, noting the silent alarm button on the side of the table is red, indicating he managed to hit the button in the few seconds I had my back turned. He rolls onto his back, his hand clutching his neck, and I don’t waste time trying to restrain him. I bring my foot up, bringing my heel down on his face with a crack.

He goes limp just as the door shoves open, and I whirl around, gun drawn, squeezing off rounds until the doorway is empty. Slowly walking toward the door, I listen intently for footsteps or any type of commotion. It’s all clear, so I drag the bodies out into the hallway, then shut the door and turn back to Dmitri. I pick up the zip ties and syringes from where they fell to the floor during our scuffle, first securing him and then shooting him up with enough sedative until I know he won’t give me any more trouble, but I’m also not sure he won’t die.

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