Page 39 of The Heir
My hands are still trembling as I drop to my knees and struggle to untie the pillowcase. As soon as it's off, my stomach lurches.
"No."
"Yes!" Hannah cackles. "Wasn't he one of yours?"
A very dead Forge stares lifelessly at the ceiling. I can only recognize him by the color of his hair. His face is completely caved in, covered in blood, bone shards poking through—but it's him.
I killed Forge.
I fucking killed Forge.
My stomach roils again, and I twist away, retching. Tears stream down my face as I plead with any god who might be listening. No. No. No. No. No. Bring him back. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to do that. I didn't mean to hurt him. I didn't mean to kill him.
But I killed Forge.
"Ella's going to break you," Hannah says with a giggle. "She's going to break you and rebuild you, andyou're going to kill your own husband. It's going to behilarious. And Roman's gonna love every second of it."
I can barely hear the lunatic ravings of this woman. I can't hear anything but the repetition in my mind: I killed Forge. I killed Forge. I killed Forge. My whole body convulses as I reach toward his body, clutching at his bloodstained clothes, sobbing and screaming. I pull the man's corpse into my arms, and I rock myself back and forth.
"Don't be dead," I plead. "Don't. Please. Please, Forge. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't fucking mean it!"
"But you did it!" Hannah gloats in a singsong voice. "You did it, and you'll do it again!"
"I fucking won't," I snarl, snapping my gaze to her face. "I fucking won't. The only people I'm going to kill here areyouand that bitch!"
"Sure, sure. We'll see, girly. Once you get crazy like that, we could point you atanyone." She grins again. "It's going to be so fun."
I clutch Forge's body to mine until he grows cold. His blood no longer oozes to the floor. His eyes don't flutter. His body is completely still. He's gone. He's fucking gone. Hannah did this—Hannahmademe do this. But did she? I was clawing at the walls, acting like a fiend, and she just… tossed him in. She gave me the man and the tool.
But she didn't hold a gun to my head. I did it. I did this. I killed Forge.
I'll never forgive myself, and Dante is going to hate me.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper to Forge's corpse. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Sleep is the only reprieve I get from this hellscape. I sleep; I wake. I eat; I drink. I sleep again. Forge's lifeless face haunts me when I'm awake. I dream vividly, seeing his horrified expression. Even in my dreams, I can't stop myself. He begs and pleads. I scream my apologies. I sob as my body does what it wants: I kill him.
I kill Forge, over and over, even in my dreams.
But I can't keep myself awake. The drowsiness doesn't go away. My eyelids feel so fucking heavy, and my limbs move slower than I want. Reaching up to rub the grit from my eyes, I smack myself in the face and hiss in pain. It feels… familiar. It feels like I've been drugged. But how?
I giggle at the thought. I barely eat, and I drink the minuscule amount of water Hannah provides, so how could they be drugging me? Maybe an IV in my sleep? With fuzzy vision, I look down at my arms. There arebruises everywhere, of course, but nothing that would suggest an injection. Or repeated injections.
But what do I know? I'm not a nurse. Or a doctor. My passion lies in ripping people apart, not sewing them back together.
My stomach twists again, and my mouth fills with the disgusting taste of bile. Fuck, no. I can't think about ripping anyone's throat out. But I did that. I did it. The words repeat in my mind. I see Dante's face, twisted in disgust. Melnyk's steel gray eyes fill with tears as he screams at me. Helena looks at me like I'm a monster.
Iama fucking monster.
Maybe Ella should have left Forge's corpse in my room. Maybe she should have made me watch him bloat and decompose, like we watched in her basement. Maybe that would be an appropriate punishment.
Curling my knees to my chest, I stare at the crumbling mortar between each cinderblock. Higher on the walls, some of the old paint remains. I imagine it used to be white, but now it's a sickly yellow. Smudges of blackish grey accompany the smoker's-house yellow. I don't know what they are, but I can imagine they have to do with the violence of this place.
I belong here. Ella's right. I belong here in this forgotten prison. But I won't kill my husband—I won't. She can't make me. She can break my bones and rip out my hair, scream in my face, stab me—but I fuckingwon'tkill my husband. I can't say the same about her. The thought twists my stomach again. Sweat beads on my forehead and down my back while shivers wrack my spine. Nausea bubbles up again, but I force it back down with a hard swallow.
I am a monster, and she ruined me. She took away the thing that gave me relief. Was it horrible? Yes. But I wasgoodat it. Dante watched me with loving, soulful eyes inhisbasement—our basement—and praised me for my work. I wasgoodat killing. But the thought sickens me now. Ella did that to me.
Taking in a wheezing breath, I squint my eyes shut and count to four while slowly exhaling. I can control this. I can control myself. I can get a hold of my… situation… and redirect it. There are only two people on my kill list: Ella and Hannah. I can do that. They'll be the last people I take from this earth, and Iwillenjoy it. They can't fucking take that from me.
