Page 32 of Bound to a Killer
Moisture accumulates along her lower lash line, and I hate the effect it has on me.
“But you said you’d let me go back, you promised?—”
“No…” I enunciate slowly, steadying my breathing as my knuckles whiten against my knees. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”
She shudders under my harsh glare, silent.
A second later, I drive the final nail into the coffin. “You’re never going back. Not now. Not ever.”
Her lashes flutter as she fights to hold the tears back. She’s starting to break. I can feel myself tearing her down.
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not personal, sweetheart. Like I said before, it never was.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “How do you sleep at night knowing all the things you’ve done?”
“Just fine,” I lie through gritted teeth, my tone measured and void of emotion. Inside, something volatile festers.
The fuck would she know about me or the things I’ve done?
She’s spent her entire life sheltered behind a facade, all held together with neat little bows wrapped around the outside, hiding the ugly underneath.
That’s not me. I’m rough around the edges, jagged, unapologetically who I am—even if it’s misinterpreted by the general public.
Her painting me as the villain isn’t anything new. Anyone would do the same. It’s the natural trajectory, and I welcome it.
It’s better this way. I don’t need to be understood to get through what needs to be done.
She whips her head to the side, her eyes gleaming with something that looks a lot like disgust. “I don’t understand how you can justify something as awful as murder. How could you?” Her voice quiets. “Why?”
“It’s simple. Some people just deserve to die.”
She draws her shoulders up and tenses.
Without a word of reassurance or explanation, I gather theempty bowls and shove back my chair, the scrape cutting through the tension.
I’ll make sure that the next time Tanner sees Aria, he’ll know I have her under control. After that, he’ll have no choice but to fall in line.
She might hate me now.
But I can live with that.
11
ARIA
“Stop fighting, goddamn it.”
The putrid scent of vodka lingers on his breath as he shoves me back into the couch, his sweaty hand sliding up my shirt. I try to kick, to yell, but his other hand clamps over my mouth.
“Lower your voice,” he hisses, but I don’t.
I keep thrashing, trying to push him off, but his heavy, overweight frame is too much for an elementary school girl.
Desperation takes over. I do the only thing I can think of: I bite down on the hand across my mouth, hard.
“AHH, you fucking bitch!”
