Page 86 of Iris' Lying Eyes

“Don’t you know? You gave her one last fix. A final fuck you, hm?”

Closing my eyes, I fight the tears. Poor B. Once again, he won’t be able to save her. What will that do to his soul?

“What did you do?” I whisper.

“What’s this, tears?” He chortles. “I gave the bitch what she deserves and left your phone with a text from John on the screen. Bastion won’t bother to look for your sorry ass.”

My phone? What phone? I had my phone right up until he cornered me in the house. No matter. This doesn’t change the situation. B’s mom is dead, and if I want to live, I’m going to have to kill his father.

I skim my fingers over the dirt, stopping on a sizable stone. Curling my fingers around it, I push up and say, “John won’t like it. Do you really want to piss him off?”

“That little pissant? He’ll do what I want or meet the hole,” he says, shoving his knee into my shoulder.

Wheezing, I fall to the ground with an oof and eat dirt. Still, I grasp the rock like it’s my lifeline, freezing when he drops on top of me.

“Are you ready?” he breathes, and I flinch when the cold bite of metal caresses my throat. I always thought it would be John who did the honors. How ironic.

“Now, this will only hurt for a minute,” he chuckles.

My heart throbs, and my back fucking aches, but I slam my head up with the last of my energy, ignoring the way the knife cuts through my skin.

“Bitch,” Roman says, rearing back.

His hand on the knife goes slack, and I flip over, slamming the rock curled between my fingers against his head.

He drops like a stone, and I grab for the knife in his hand, wrestling when he tightens his hold.

He grunts, I growl, and we flip. He grabs my wrist with his other hand, and I cry out before we flip again, but this time, I knee him where it counts, and his hold loosens.

He can’t hold his weight, and he drops on top of me. His eyes meet mine as the knife slides into his chest. Lucky for me—him, not so much—as it glides right between bone and into his heart.

Blood immediately covers my hand, the warm, wet press slick. When he falls back, I follow, pressing on that damn knife with all the rage I have.

His hands flail, his arms go slack, and I push up to my knees. I don’t stop until that fucking handle is buried to the hilt.

The wind rustles the trees, a gentle song whispering through the branches.

His wide eyes meet mine; he whispers something I can’t understand and closes his eyes.

My heart is thumping so hard, I can feel the pulse in my temple. With one last push, I drop to my ass and stare.

I did it. I survived, but Roman Bruno, Bastion’s dad, is dead. What will Bastion do?

Fuck, if what Roman said is true, he just lost both his parents in one fell swoop.

What a cluster. With the last of my strength, I force my aching limbs to stand, where I sway and touch my head. My vision wavers. My stomach rebels, and leaning over, I lose the contents of my stomach into the grass.

Fuck.

I’m not sure how I make it, but I stagger my way back inside and up the stairs, where I step into the shower, fully clothed, and drop to the floor.

I killed a man. I should feel something, but I don’t. Hell, I don’t even feel relieved. I’m numb.

The water soothes my sore muscles, but I continue to retch intermittently until the water runs cold.

When I realize I’m shivering, I step out of my clothes and wrap a towel around my torso.

Looking into the mirror, I survey the damage. My neck is bruised, and a small cut runs the circumference, no doubt from the knife. I have a bruise on my cheek that throbs in tandem with my skull, and my back is a Rorschach of color, but I’ll live. But is it worth it if I have too many fissures on my soul?

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