Page 6 of Intense
The twins get into position on either side of the door, and I start to pick at the lock, jabbing the metal into the hole until it clicks.
“See ya on the other side, fuckers,” I whisper to them.
The room is silent as I step inside, closing the door behind me. It’s modest. Clean. Boring. Only confirming my suspicions. This is not The Preacher. Merely one of his lackeys.
But Enzo wants him dead, so Luke Taylor will be dead. Rules are rules. Any man who enters a woman into our Decadence games dies. Luke entered Abigail into Conan’s Chase. So here I am, like I am for every kill.
They enter these women thinking it gives them a chance to become part of the elite in the mafia world. Little do they realize, all it does is send me into their homes in the middle of the night to kill them. Poetic in a way. They do get a new life, just in hell.
I wait, leaning against the doorframe to his bedroom. He’s sprawled across his mattress, mouth slack with sleep, a faint wheeze rattling in his throat. Pathetic. I stand there a moment, taking him in—how ordinary he looks, how easy it is to end a life that once thought itself untouchable.
Because he did believe that, that’s why he tried to use Abigail, his damn girlfriend, as a sacrifice to get a ticket in to Inferno.
I draw the syringe from my pocket. Rocuronium. It’s rapid and reliable. I step beside him, my gloved hand presses against his jaw, tilting his head just so. He doesn’t even stir when the needle breaks skin, only exhales a sleepy sigh as if he senses nothing.
But he will.
I watch the seconds count down in my mind, my pulse steady. When the drug takes hold, it’s not like he jolts awake. No, it’s subtler. His eyes flutter, then widen with a clarity I savor. I relish this part.
He tries to draw in a breath, but the muscles refuse him. I hear it—the hitching, the ragged choke of air caught somewhere he can’t reach.
I know what this feels like, being so vulnerable at the hands of someone more powerful than you and not being able to do a single thing about it.
I kneel beside the bed, my face inches from his. I want him to see me. To know.
“You’re still here,” I murmur, my voice low, almost kind. “That’s the curse of this one. Fully awake. Nothing you can do.”
I tap his cheek and grin.
His pupils blow wide, fixed on mine. His chest jerks in shallow spasms, diaphragm locked in paralysis. I can feel the panic rolling off him. He tries to scream, but there’s no sound. Only that wet, futile rattle.
Air hunger. The most primal terror there is.
I rest a hand over his sternum, feeling the weak flutter beneath. He’s drowning in the open air, and I am the only witness. His heartbeat thunders, then falters. His lips go purple. His eyes, pleading for a mercy I don’t possess.
I slit his throat with a single, clean stroke. A ritual more than a necessity—a small mercy, I suppose. And I make sure to do it while the heart is still pumping so the arterial blood splashes across the sheets, stark against the dull beige. I work quickly, pressing the fentanyl patch to his skin, letting the overdose soak in. Insurance for the coroner’s report.
And for good measure, I give him matching slices across his wrists, leaving the blade in his limp hand.
I stand back to admire my work. There’s an elegance in this artistry.
He never really knew how close death had been. Not until it was too late to beg. Not that it would have helped his cause.
I don’t believe in second chances.
Chapter 2
STEPHANIE
I’m rushing toward the exit, yanking the stethoscope from around my neck, when I slam into something solid.
My hands fly out to brace myself.
I freeze.
“Dr. Miller. Somewhere important you need to be?”
That Irish drawl makes my heart thud like it’s trying to escape.
