Page 85 of Love Sick

He knows what I have to do and he won’t judge me for it.

When I step out from behind the counter and Noah sees the shiv in my hand, his arrogance soon turns to panic. “I can help you.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You want to bring Parkfields and Alanna down, right? I’m the character witness you need. I will tell the police everything. You kill me, and who will corroborate your story?”

He’s right…but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

“What do you think?” I ask Dutch.

He walks toward me and gently places a kiss on the tip of my nose. I am instantly reassured. “I think you kill that motherfucker.”

Such words coupled with kindness make me smile because, finally, Dutch and I can take back what was stolen from us.

“What? No,” Noah says, fighting frantically to get free. “Please don’t kill me.”

I could drag this affair out, but honestly, Noah is an oxygen thief, and he has taken breaths that Misha will never take and for that, I calmly walk over to him and slash his throat open.

Blood spurts from the wound, coating my face, my dress, but I stand tall, watching Noah gasp for air as he struggles to breathe. Bloody air bubbles form at the wound on his throat, which pop as he continues to fight for life.

But this is the end.

Music suddenly drowns out his gurgling.

Dutch commences playing the most beautiful yet haunting piece of music. It begins to pick up speed the louder Noah gasps. It feels as though Dutch wishes to provide some beauty in something so grotesque.

I watch with utter satisfaction as his eyes lock on mine, no doubt cursing my name. I’ll see him in hell, I suppose, because I, too, am a sinner.

The blood trickles down his neck, and the candlelight only seems to draw out the vibrant color. This macabre sight warms my heart, and before long, Noah’s chest stops rising and falling. And just like that, he’s dead.

I thought I would feel something, but I don’t.

I feel nothing at all as the shiv drops to the floor.

Leaving behind the scene of madness, I follow the music in a trancelike state. When I see Dutch playing, a rush of desire overcomes me, and I revel in the madness as I slip off my bloodstained dress. I walk over to him and run my fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t stop playing. In fact, the tempo increases, as does the urgency of the song. It feels as though he is encapsulating everything we just experienced into music.

From his hair, I work my fingers down his cheek, caressing over the stubble, before scratching down the side of his throat. The rhythm of his heartbeat pounds strongly, and I lean down and bite over his pulse.

He allows me to take what I need because the reality of what I did crashes into me.

I killed a man, and I’ll happily do it again.

Does that make me a monster?

Gripping Dutch’s hair, I yank his head to the side, biting his neck harder. I don’t know why I need to do it; I just take comfort in feeling his heart beat against my lips.

He doesn’t stop playing. The music is beautiful.

I continue softly biting him—over his shoulder, down his back; I want to eat him alive.

I wait for the guilt to set in, but it doesn’t. All I feel is the satisfaction of avenging my son and the excitement of delivering the same fate to others who have played a part in hurting Misha.

I kiss, then bite, then suck every inch of Dutch’s slick skin. I want him inside me to fill the void which grows hungrier and hungrier as each second passes. I’m far from gentle, but we both need the fire to help remind us that we’re still alive.

The notes end mid song as Dutch turns over his shoulder and loops his hand behind my head, dragging my mouth to his. We kiss like it’s the last day on earth because it may well be.

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