Page 139 of Sinister Legacy
I can’t do this.
I have to do this.
Or we all die.
My gaze flicks up to the clock on the wall, only to slide back down to the dirty floor.
Seven minutes and counting.
Think, Keira. Think.
Jumping to my feet, I pull off both their weapons. The silvery duct tape is sticky beneath my fingers and a nightmare to discard. One of the strips sticks to my denim jacket as I crouch behind Madison, using the switchblade to cut through the ropes. I don’t have a plan. All I know is that I can’t possibly kill my friends. I can’t pick one. I’m a monster, but I refuse to admit I’m incapable of love.
Madison throws off her robe and wrings her sore wrists, while I free King. The moment he breaks free of the bindings, he stands from his chair, wraps me up in his arms, and whispers soothing words I can barely make out due to my roaring heartbeat.
Clutching him to me, I breathe in the scent of leather and peppermint. “He wants me to kill one of you.”
“I heard,” King replies, palming my head with his big hands and tangling his fingers in the blonde strands. “We’ll figure it out.”
Madison pulls me away from King and into her soothing embrace. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admit as I wrap my arms around her slim waist. Her puffer jacket is gone, and her red, wool sweater is damp and cold, just like the tickle of her dark hair against my cheek.
Cupping my cheeks, she scans her eyes over my face as if to reassure herself that I’m okay. I’m not, and her gaze soon snags on my bloodied chin and mouth, the crimson streak on my cheek. “What did he do?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I step back, scanning the room. Behind me, King removes the robe. The weapons lie discarded on the floor, so I pick them up. “What do we do?”
King looks away from the clock on the wall.Five minutes. “When he walks back in here, we run at him.”
“Are you stupid?” Madison grits out, pointing to the camera. “He can hear us.”
“Do you have a better plan?” A jagged tear in his black T-shirt reveals his tanned, tattooed skin and streaks of dried blood. Even now, beaten up and bruised, with his hair in disarray, King is beautiful.
So beautiful, in fact, I have to look away.
Madison trains her blue eyes on me. “Is there any way to beat him at his own game?”
“Yeah, rush him and kill him,” King tells her.
“He’ll see it coming from a fucking mile away. Besides, for all we know, he could walk in here with a gun.”
“Screw you, Madison. How the hell do you suggest we get out of here otherwise?”
Four minutes.
My fingers tighten around the weapons while they continue bickering. I study them both, their haunted eyes that flash with anger as they get up in each other’s faces. Madison has always been hot-headed. She pretends she doesn’t care, but she does.
My thoughts circle to our childhood. Images of her kicking her bike when she didn’t learn fast enough how to ride without training wheels flood my mind. How she turned to me, her long pigtails swinging with the movement, and said, “Stupid thing. I never wanted to learn anyway.”
It’s no surprise that King is hot-headed. I learned that early on, and I liked that side of him.
Three minutes.
Placing the weapons in the hem of my jeans, I slide between them, acting as a barrier. “Arguing won’t get us anywhere.” I look at Madison in front of me, then over my shoulder at King.
They glare at each other before deflating with defeated sighs. Stroking my hand over Madison’s cheek, my gaze glides past her to the clock on the wall. I swallow thickly and force myself to look back at Madison. “We can’t win against this killer. I’ve played his games before. He’s always one step ahead.”
“So what do you suggest we do?”
