Page 13 of Gambit
With a swift, unhesitating motion, Eliza stabs Franks right in his cock. His scream cuts off every other sound in the room, a primal howl that’s music to my ears. A vicious satisfaction curls in my stomach as he writhes, the knife in him a declaration—nobody fucks with Eliza Hughes and gets away with it.
“Eliza...” Her name’s a growl in my throat, and I can’t tear my eyes away from her face. There’s something wild there, something dangerously beautiful in the way she stands over Franks, fearless and fierce.
“You will never be able to use that onanywoman again, you piece of shit,” she spit out before her hand jerks back, Flick slick with blood, leaving Franks whimpering on the ground. Her smile twists, not a bit of joy in it, but all the satisfaction of a score settling deep into her bones. I watch her, this woman made of steel and fire, the embodiment of the Hughes legacy. Thattwisted smile of hers, it’s not for show; it’s the real Eliza, the one who doesn’t just endure but fights back, hard.
I take a step forward, the barely covered floorboards creaking under my weight. My hand slides to my belt, fingers wrapping around the hilt of my knife. It’s an old friend, the blade that’s seen more than its fair share of bloodshed. Pulling it free, this is what I do best, what we do best—deliver justice, our kind of justice.
Franks’ eyes are on me, wide with fear, knowing death is coming. Good. He should be scared. The steel in my hand reflects the light and the promise of vengeance. We don’t let anyone hurt our own, and when they do, they pay. They pay in blood and screams, and I’m about to collect in full.
“You fuckers ruined my life,” Franks rasps.
“You ruined your own life,” I mutter.
“She left me for some asshole in Sweden,” he growls. “All because of you!”
“How is that our fault?” I ask, confused. “She came looking for a good time, and we showed her one. Not our fault you couldn’t keep your woman satisfied and happy.” I hate that Eliza has to hear this, but I know my girl. She doesn’t care about the past, not what we did, but she will be furious she got caught up in our mess in the present.
“Enough talking.” My blade sinks into Franks’ belly, a hot rush of blood bubbling up around the steel. He screams, the sound jagged and raw, but I’m beyond mercy now. My hand works fast, ripping through flesh, tearing open his guts to spill all over the floor.
I yank out a coil of intestine, slick and steaming, and loop it around Franks’ neck. His eyes bulge, and his mouth gapes open like a goldfish in a silent plea, but it’s pointless. I pull tight, a garrotte of his own viscera, and his struggles slow down as he bleeds out.
“Shh,” I whisper. “This is what you get for crossing us and touching what isn’t yours.”
Hands still soaked with his insides, I reach for his throat, fingers pressing into the soft tissue beneath the jaw. I squeeze, feeling the life ebbing from him, his futile attempts to draw breath growing weaker.
The room goes deathly quiet except for Franks’ choking gasps, the final soundtrack to his death.
I turn, locking eyes with Eliza. Flames of vengeance burn in her gaze, and we’re united in the savage justice we’ve carved out.
Franks gurgles again, and as his body slumps, the silence stretches between us like a sacred space.
9
ELIZA
Blood,warm and sticky on my hand, gripping Flick as if my life depended on it, I stare down at Professor Franks, his body sprawled on the cold floor, eyes wide open in a final look of surprise. My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, but inside, I feel light as air. Relief floods through me, my heart steady, my mind clear. He’s gone.
“Eliza.” Raphael’s voice cuts through the silence, rough with concern.
Lifting my gaze to his before I sweep it over to Tarquin, I smile at their expressions, hard with eyes full of worry.
“Yes. Take me home. I need to clean up.” I gesture at my torn dress, stained with blood and cum.
“Of course, let’s get out of here,” Oliver responds immediately.
Raphael moves closer, his presence dominating yet comforting. “Let’s go.”
Tarquin nods, silent but vigilant, his eyes scanning the room one final time before we leave. We don’t speak as we exit the cottage, stepping into the cool night air. The silence is like death all around us, oblivious to what’s transpired in the shadows. Butthat’s how it always is with our kind of life – violent acts hidden beneath a veneer of normalcy.
“We need to make sure?—”
“It’ll be done,” Oliver says. “Don’t think about him anymore.”
Nodding, I keep my head high as we walk, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving a dull ache in its place. But it’s an ache I welcome because it means I’m still here, still standing.
“Eliza,” James murmurs, approaching us from across the road.
“Home.”
