“Theo!” I yell out, my eyes watering.
“Good girl,” he says, chuckling, but then the amusement dies, and his face turns grim. “I’ll be back in forty-eight hours, Gabriella.” His sad/grumpy expression is cute, and I have this sudden urge to bite him. I don’t, but it’s there. I’ve nicknamed him, and now I’m thinking of sinking my teeth into him. What is he turning me into? “Your meeting with the lawyer is set up to coincide with my return. I’ll be driving you to and from, so be ready by three.”
“Is this a command?”
“More like my way of asking you out on a romantic date.”
“How so?” I’m trying to act put off, but the smile on my face is a dead giveaway to the butterflies in my stomach. “First, a meeting with a lawyer is not proper date etiquette. And two, I was never informed of this.”
“Consider this your formal invitation and it would be right after the lawyer.”
“What if I say no?”
He rolls his eyes at my raised brow. “Then it’s a command. Be ready for me.”
“I’ll have you—” his lips on mine kill the rest of my response. The kiss is quick and passionate, and I’m left panting when he pulls back much too soon, dragging his teeth over my lip before releasing.
“What were you saying?”
“See you in two days.”
“Two days, beautiful.” Those amber eyes leave my face and travel down my body and up again, pausing at my wrist. “I love your new charm, by the way.”
“New charm?”
“Take a look.”
Theodore walks down my front porch while I’m busy staring at the jeweled crown on my wrist. It’s white gold with black onyx stones surrounding the bottom half with two letters engraved inside. A giant T & G with the numbers 10:04 next to it. It’s beautiful and makes me smile and I’m wondering when Theo had a chance to pin it there.
Must’ve been while I was sleeping. And what does the 10:04 mean?
He’s too good to be true.
He’s going to ruin me.
Bill.
Bill.
Super-saving flyer from a grocery store.
Another bill.
Some offer for a free manicure if I book a pedi at the new spa.
The fuck? “Why are there black rose petals in here?” My hand pushes aside all the mail I’ve collected over the last few days, not looking to see what was here before since I know most is trash, but this is out of place. I’ve never bought nor have I received a black rose before, and this one’s dead, completely dry and brittle and as I lift the stem from the bowl, the rest of its petals fall.
Did Elise bring this in? Am I that out of it, I didn’t notice the rose?
It was lying on an envelope with my name written across the front in a very neat penmanship, the stark white of the paper casing now stained by the last imprints of its petals. Setting everything else aside, I open the closed flap and pull out a small stack of folded papers.
The company heading is one from the orphanage I grew up in—I’d know the symbol anywhere—and this fills me with trepidation. My heart races and hands clam up, but as I unfold the documents, the first line breaks my heart.
Voluntary Relinquishment of Parental Rights
Voluntary.
Voluntary.
I can’t move past that word as it says so much within the confinement of nine letters. The truth is sledgehammering into all my processors—lashing at my nerves with sharp claws, and my chest grows tight. My eyes fill with tears the further down I read, slicing me open as the truth is screamed within each line.
I’m unwanted. Abandoned.
The room feels small and my breaths are coming in sharply, the pain intensifying, but more so when I see their names spelled out above a pair of signatures belonging to the couple who brought me into this world: Richard and Carla Burgess.
“I don’t even have their last name?” I say out loud while mentally I’m asking who named me. Whose surname was donated to the unwanted child tossed at the system without looking back? Turning to the last two pages, I encounter a bank statement with a large sum deposited days after I was given to the orphanage and a letter of agreement.
My eyes skim each line with watery eyes while stumbling into the nearest wall; I slide down and sit, feeling as though the walls are caving in. Question after question rushes through my mind. About who they were or are. About who really gave me this house.
Was he my biological mother’s brother, or my father’s?
Then, I ask myself, why now?
Why give me that lump sum along with this property?
With every tick of the clock, my chest tightens. It hurts. Physically and emotionally, I ache in a way I’ve never encountered before. Can’t breathe, and I let the papers fall to the floor. “I need to get out of here.”
Jumping up from my position on the floor; I grab my wallet and keys, and rush out the door. I’m in such a rush that I don’t remember getting in my car and driving toward Pike’s Place. I’m on autopilot and come to when I walk to my favorite artisan stall inside the market.
Everyone looks at me funny as they pass. Staring at the redheaded woman with blotchy skin, tears running down her cheeks, while wearing the equivalent of workout clothes; a sports bra and leggings. I was going to go for a run after handling the bills; I’d wanted to clear my head and work through each beast’s placement on the Astor Gallery pieces.
That didn’t work out. Nothing will.
My life is a mess of nightmares, lunatic emotions, and now this.
“Are you okay, Miss?” the shop owner, a woman in her mid to late thirties, asks me. No one else is standing near us; they’re looking but giving me a wide berth. “Do you need something or for me to call—”
“I’m fine. Just had a rough day.”
“Would you like to take a seat? I can bring you a chair.” Her hand reaches out for my arm and gives it a squeeze. The action is meant to be comforting, but instead, I’m filled with a sense of longing. How many family members do I have? Do I have a sister or a brother, maybe multiples of each?
“No.” Shaking my head, I step back a bit and give her a sad smile. “Thank you for the offer, but right now I just need to walk.”
“Are you sure—”
Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I give her a smile. “I’m sure. Thank you, though.” There are a few more specialty shops in this section and I take my time walking through each, not buying but admiring the artisan pieces made by local artists while staying clear of those shopping. It helps me calm down after a while, calms me to be surrounded by so many one-of-a-kind creations.
My creative soul relaxes. Welcomes the soothing vibes.
However, when I reach the farmers market section of Pike’s, I feel someone watching me. Their stare is hard and the footsteps not light in the least, as if they want to be seen, and yet when I turn my head no one makes direct eye contact.
Too many people surround me to pinpoint either.
So I move on, walking down the aisle and only pausing to buy some fresh pears that looked too good to pass up. And when I leave the area, I finally see a man in his late forties with a barrel gut walking closer than I feel comfortable with.
I’ve never seen him. I have no idea who he is.
But that doesn’t stop him from following me for the next fifteen minutes, and after trying to lose him at the Starbucks, I head to my car. Not running, but I take my kitty multi tool out and slip my fingers through the area below the ears, gripping the metal tight.
Footsteps come closer and I pause, giving myself a second to gather my breaths before whirling around and... nothing.
No man.
No more footsteps.
It’s as if I conjured everything and when I look around, taking in the many shoppers and vendors, I’m left questioning my sanity.
Where did he go? “Did I imagine him?”
26
King
His screams of pain rend the air, filling the
warm summer night with a haunting symphony that makes me smile. His chest is red, the rivulets rising from each cut and flowing down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.
The man is bound by his hands and feet to the floor of an empty building not far from Gabriella’s home and the heart of Seattle. It’s an empty space that I own and have soundproofed, dedicated each of its twenty floors to a different kind of torture, reminiscent of my home back in Italy.
I’ll bleed him dry here.
Drain him drop by drop until he talks, and still grant no mercy when he does.
This is his fault. Not mine. Not my pretty girl’s.
“Speak up, Mr. Hall.” His response is more unintelligible gibberish, his bodily functions failing him when the front of his pants become piss stained. Filthy animal. “You disgust me.”
“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong. I was there to—” I cut off his bullshit with a backhand, the force behind the blow to his face breaking the cheekbone and his nose.
“I’m going to ask you again.” I snap my fingers and two special creatures slither into the room, watching the man with spiteful eyes. One constricts. One is venomous. “Who sent you?”
“I-I didn’t.” That’s all he manages to get out as the white albino coils at striking distance from his feet. The cobra stands with a regal position, her hood expanded and forked tongue flicking in and out languidly.
I command them both.
The male is mine.
The female is my gift to Miss Moore.
“Last chance.” Then, I whistle and the cobra strikes as she knows to do, two puncture wounds on his abdomen that immediately make him tense, a curdling scream escaping his throat. Then again, another dry bite, just because he’s pissed me off. Both serpents watch and wait, my hand gestures the only communication we need at the moment. “Are you ready to talk now?”
“Don’t kill me.”
“You should’ve thought about that beforehand. No?” I trail a sharp metal nail over the two small punctures at the center and scratch the skin—stretching it while watching it widen. Because the skin’s elasticity does give under pressure if the right amount is exerted and right now, I’m slicing up from just below his belly button to his sternum. “Preying on a defenseless woman? Following her around for the past few days?”
His eyes widen, the blood quickly draining from his face. This is a new fear. Nothing to do with the damage already inflicted. “She made me do it.”
“She who?” I ask, yet the pieces haven’t been hard to put together. The past has a way of finding the present and mixing together in ways that no one predicts, but I’m enjoying the idiocy of some. My beast has been caged for too long. My thirst unsatiated. When he doesn’t answer, his limbs shaking, I undo his bindings while the animals watch.
I don’t let him fall. I don’t hurt him and without exertion carry him to a chair I’d placed where he’d face the night sky. It’s an old, ornate chair fit for a king, one that’s seen better days and whose stains all reveal a haunting past. Each mark is a drop of my enemies blood, a sign of death.
“I’ll tell you everything,” David begins the moment I sit him in the chair, tone a little more cooperative. Idiot. But then again, that’s human nature, to fake complacency until you can lash out and run. It’s that fight or flight instinct that pushes one toward survival at all costs; words meant to explain a person’s reaction to a certain situation, and yet, all it does is try and hide the truth from a predator weakly. Because fear is a dominating emotion, near crippling, and with enough coercion, any man will crumble. I feed off his dread. Smile down at him. “Just don’t kill me.”
“That depends on you.” Stepping to his left, I crouch down beside him and place a hand on his shoulder. My nails dig in, the skin breaking where the sharp metal tips rip through. Not that I need them to inflict damage, but it entertains me to watch confusion and terror fill my victims’ eyes when they see them, a prop given to me years ago by someone I lost as a gag gift. “Tell me who, Mr. Hall. I need a name.”
“She goes by Veltross and—” I remove the claws from his shoulder and place the bloody tip over his mouth, smearing his life’s essence across his lips. Hall swallows hard, shuddering on a gag he swallows back while with the sharpness of a scalpel, the center of his lips split open. The skin is so fragile there, filets open like a steak would under a butcher’s blade, the skin pink and red—tender.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Will you let me go?”
I don’t answer him, but instead hold up my hand while standing and both animals come near at my silent command. They watch me, heads tilted as if they were twins who shared one soul. There’s understanding in each pair of eyes. They’re faithful to their master and his chosen.
Always will be.
There’s a comforting release when I give in to my nature, the demon that is a part of me and has no remorse. His whimpers once again fill the room, and the heavy scent of blood fills my senses. Death surrounds him, a rotten stench that comes from men like him. Pigs. Pathetic.
A sexual predator.
“You made a grave mistake.”
“I didn’t do—”
“Silence.” My voice thunders throughout the open space. It reverberates as a bolt of lightning flashes across the large windows we face, him in a chair while I take a stand beside him. Not looking. Not talking.
The Seattle sky opens then as the first drops of rain descend, the night turning as black as my heart. Another flash of lightning and the windowpane is assaulted by sharp drops of angry water that batter the glass while no one moves.
I have no idea how long we stay that way. Time has no meaning for me.
Beside me, though, Mr. Hall seems to have calmed down. His bleeding has slowed down a bit, the coagulated drops over the wound providing a barrier.
First rule of survival: never drop your guard.
Second rule: keep your eyes open.
The second those drooping eyes close, I land a blow to the side of his skull that sends him falling, the hard concrete cushioning his head and side. Did he really think I’d let him walk out of these doors?
“Why?” Pathetic. Nothing angers me more than a man who can’t accept death with some dignity. But worse than that is one who tries to touch someone forbidden and then lies. “It’s all that woman. Go find her.”
“Are you giving me orders now?” At the tsk, the serpents move slightly closer, a hiss escaping their mouths. “Answer me.”
“Never, Mr. King.”
“So you know who I am.” Not a question, though, and he nods. “You know what I’m capable of?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you conspired against me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re not.” Faster than he can comprehend, two mouths strike and bite, one with venom and the other with sharp teeth that sink in and don’t release. They pin him down while I straddle his chest, taking my time while he fights against their hold. More piss escapes his bladder, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Such filth. And you thought to touch what’s mine? You wanted to mark her flesh with your dirty hands?”
“I’ll go away.”
“Agreed.” With two fingers, I slide inside his abdominal cavity via an earlier wound. It’s just large enough to fit half my hand, and after forcing the tips of four fingers inside—stretching—I rip through and leave behind a six-inch gash that reaches his belly button. The elasticity gives way under pressure and horrified screams fill the air, his blood staining my bare chest and pants.
I pull the red fingers out and find another wound right over his ribs and mimic my actions.
Then another. Three in total, but none deep enough to kill him.
They’re meant to hurt. To bathe the floor in his life’s essence.
I watch as more blood seeps. As the puddle beneath us grows.
Mr. Hall’s eyes roll back but I slap him awake; I’m not done.
�
��Look at me. Keep those eyes on mine.” I’m examining the sharp metal over my fingers, following the small drips that fall from the tip and onto his face. His cries fill every square inch of the space, the sound of a wounded animal dying, but there’s one more thing I need before I leave. “You coveted someone who is mine. You tried to touch what is sacred.”
His lips open, but no sound comes out as I stab his right eyeball and pull, forcing the orb to detach from the orbital muscles. It pops out, still on my finger, the ripped tissue attached in some places. Then, I do the other after dropping the first on his chest. They stay cushioned in his sternum while two holes are left to remind those who find his body what line to never cross.
Gabriella Moore is untouchable.
No one will harm a single hair on her head.
Only I can break her.
Once I step back, the animals move and begin to bite and tear pieces of flesh from his skin. I’m going to leave him broken, battered, and disfigured for the police to find behind the Astor Gallery.
“The time has come.”
27
Gabriella
It’s a little after ten in the morning when I stumble out of bed the next day. My body feels tired, my mind is a bit hazy, and my stomach is in knots. The last twenty-four hours mock me and have been doing so since I read those papers, and I made the mistake of taking one of the new sleeping pills to pass out.
And I did. Shortly after taking the small oblong tablet, I gave in to the effects and slept through without a single dream haunting my rest, but right now the aftereffects aren’t worth the nausea and muscle pain throughout my body accompanied by the migraine from hell.
“How did I draw the lucky number to win three side effects at once?” I grumble, a bit uncoordinated as I walk to the bathroom. Inside, I turn on the shower and strip, nearly tripping on my sleep shorts. However, the warm water is worth the almost concussion as it immediately soothes me, my tired body getting a bit of respite while the hot water on my scalp lulls me.
Little Lies Page 17
