Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Ambrose

I WASN”T EXACTLY surprised when Huxley told me what Beau Tolliver had tried to do to his own daughter. I wasn’t surprised because I’d already seen how broken she is, the way a single word could trigger her like the flip of a switch and change her into a brutal fighter…like me.

People don’t just behave like that—they do that as a product of their genetics or as the result of trauma. Maybe it’s a combination of both for her. The way the light behind her eyes had died when I called her princess—just before she snapped—made it obvious how she’s suffered in her life.

And sick as it is, knowing this only draws me to her more…it draws me to them. Huxley is woefully ignorant of what she is, who she is, what she’s capable of…Worse, he’s ignorant of himself. But I don’t doubt him when he says he loves her. I just don’t know whether he loves her or the idea of her.

All of it makes me curious, interested…involved.

Involvement means connection, and connection is dangerous knowing what I have to do to these two beautiful creatures trapped in my childhood cage.

I turn the lock to secure the cage door behind me once Huxley is inside, then I toss him the key to his ankle cuffs through the bars.

“That’ll unlock her cuff, too,” I tell him, nodding toward Glory’s chained foot.

He bends to grab the key from the floor, and like a true gentleman, he moves to unchain her before unfastening his own locks. My eyes are fixed on his dexterous fingers as he works the key—nimble fingertips, long thick digits, popped veins drawing lines across the backs of his hands.

I wonder if he’s ever wrapped his palm around someone’s neck while he fucked them. I wonder if he’d do that to Glory. I think he would if she asked him to. I think he’d be glad if she asked him to. He’s pent-up behind the gentleman game he plays.

I should turn and walk away; I should let them fester in worry for a few hours while I figure out my next steps with them, but my feet don’t move.

“Did you really kill your father?” I ask Glory.

Her eyes narrow as her head turns toward me. I catch hold of her gaze for a beat before she turns to look down at Huxley as he pulls the metal cuff from around his ankle. She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off as he pushes to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, grabbing hold of her cheeks. “I told him everything. I was angry and I lost control of myself…it all just tumbled out.”

She searches his face. Though her eyes are squinted in confusion for why he would tell me their biggest secret, there’s something that looks like relief sagging through her shoulders as they fall in relaxation.

It was too much of a burden for her to carry.

“Is it true, then?” I ask.

Slowly, his hands fall from her cheeks and she looks over at me. Her throat bobs as she swallows, then slowly nods. “Yes, but I didn’t mean to do it.”

“That’s a lie.” I lift my eyebrows. “No one kills somebody by accident. There’s always intention. Always.”

“I had to defend myself.” Her voice is quiet, meek, and she turns her gaze to the floor. “I had to.”

“And there’s the truth of it,” I reply. “You had to. Just like I had to kill my parents. Just like I have to kill—”

Just like I have to kill you.

“Just like you have to kill who?” Glory asks, boldly stepping forward and wrapping her fragile fingers around the bars in front of her chest. “What were you going to say?”

I shake my head and lift my foot, prepared to back away. Before I can take a step, her hand shoots through the bars, and her fingers graze my forearm, catching me with a sharp prick, a bolt of lightning.

Static electricity.

That’s all it is, that’s all I feel when she touches me. But fuck, the sting of it lights a fire that could melt the ice around my heart. That electric current is sticky, latching onto me with a tacky grip, drawing me toward her. I step forward and wrap my palms over her fingers around the bars. She gasps at my touch and tries to pull back, but I hold firmly so she can’t let go.

Maybe I can’t let go, either.

“What I was going to say doesn’t matter to you, little bird. What matters is that you and I are the same, aren’t we? You and I are both killers.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “I’m not like you at all, I’m—”

“You’re what? Different? Special? You get a free pass to kill daddy because you’re a tiny little girl who couldn’t possibly pose a threat to anyone else?” I squeeze her hands, leaning closer, and I feel her knuckles bucking against my palms. “I see you, little bird. I see all of you, and I know exactly what you are.”

She’s quiet as she stares at me through several beats, her head tilting ever so subtly to the side. “You see me,” she whispers, as if she’s testing the words, testing how they sound, whether they’re infected with sickness or twisted with dishonesty.

They’re not.

I do see her.

“What am I then?” Her question is quiet, contemplative. She’s truly asking me, not biting back with sarcasm.

Something shifts behind my ribs…a flutter, perhaps something resembling a heartbeat. And here I thought mine had shriveled up and stopped beating the night I murdered my parents.

My grip loosens, and my thumbs stroke her knuckles. I expect her to pull away from the bars, but she doesn’t. She holds on. She keeps her eyes on mine. She stays with me.

I shuffle closer, as close as I can get with the barrier between us. Her nostrils flare as she lets out a silent, heavy breath, her tongue darts quickly across her lips, and her body sways closer.

“What am I, Ambrose?”

One of my hands breaks free, gently slipping down her wrist and across her forearm. “Something small and fragile. Something that should be free to fly, but you can’t because your wings are clipped.” She shudders at my touch. I look at her soft, porcelain skin beneath my fingertips as I stroke her arm. “My little bird…”

She breathes heavily, her green gaze fixed on mine in scrutiny. I can see that she understands me. I see her, I know her, and she knows me, too.

Can we see each other because we’ve both taken lives?

Because we both had the monstrous destiny of ending the people who brought us into this world?

“We can get you money if that’s what you want,” Huxley says, breaking the spell between us.

I let go of her and step back.

“Now that you know what Glory did to her father, you can hold that secret in exchange for letting us go. We’ll never tell a soul you kept us here because you know what she did. You know I would never risk her getting in trouble for that.”

I look squarely at Glory. “Do you really want to go, little bird?”

She swallows hard, then nods, but I don’t believe her.

“He’s right,” she murmurs. “You know my secret. If you let us go, we won’t tell anyone what you did to us, because if we do, we know you’ll tell our secret, too.”

Huxley reaches out to grab her hand and she instantly latches on, her fingers shifting between his and locking through his grip. It happens so smoothly, so easily, as if it were rehearsed—as if it’s so natural for them to touch that the simple act of reaching out for each other is like watching a painter draw a perfect, smooth brushstroke across their canvas. It’s like artwork in the making.

They’re fucking beautiful together and it’s burning me up inside.

I shake my head, moving back. “No. Fuck, no. I would never trust you.” I run my fingers through my hair.

There’s a part of me that’s considering it—the na?ve part that still believes in miracles and hopes for goodness and freedom. The only way I’ll ever be free is to complete my task for Maura, hope she stays good on her word to set me free from the crimes of my past that she holds ransom against me, and get the fuck out of this place for good.

“Please?” Every molecule freezes at the sound of Glory’s kind, pleading voice.

The way the word slips from her lips, gliding across the space as a hopeful question rather than a begging demand hurts.

I should kill them now and be done with this.

I should…

I can’t.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

“You’re fools to think I would ever trust either of you.” I turn and leave before my little bird can call me back to her again.

MAURA SLAMS THE door shut behind her as I plop down in the chair across from her desk. “I want an update.”

I reach inside my coat and lift my phone from the jacket pocket, subtly checking that the audio recording app I’d downloaded earlier is on and recording.

I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions with Maura over the years, but it occurred to me this morning that I might need some insurance of my own when it comes to this deal with her. I never thought I’d be able to leave my home, never once thought she’d give me the opportunity to be free from doing her evil deeds. And with Glory and Huxley on the line, it makes me want to be smarter about this. If I have to end those two beautiful things, I need insurance that she’s gonna let me go. If she tries to take me down for my crimes, then I’m taking her down with me.

Satisfied that I’m capturing this conversation, I slip the phone back into my pocket while Maura settles in the chair behind her desk.

“Beau is dead,” I tell her flatly. “Does that make you happy?”

A sick smile twists Maura’s lips and tells me that it does. “He’s dead? You’re sure? How did you find him?”

“You asked me to handle it. I handled it. I’m not getting into specifics.”

“How can I trust that you’ve handled it? What evidence do you have?”

“Why would I bring you evidence? Do you want us to get caught?”

“Us?” She slowly pushes her chair back and rises to her feet. Her heels click as she moves across the floor, circling her desk and leaning her ass back against the front edge while she looks down at me. “It’s your word against mine if you get caught.”

My jaw tenses. “If you want the job done, then you have to make sure I don’t get caught so I can finish it. I want my money, Maura, and as soon as I have it, I’ll be gone before anyone can find me.”

She sighs. “You know I’ll miss you if you go.”

“What will you miss? The look of disgust on my face when you make me fuck you?”

She smiles and tilts her head. “Oh, it’s the bad attitude I’ll miss the most.”

“Fuck you.”

Unaffected, she pushes off the desk. The fucking sociopath. “I want his skull.”

“What?”

“I want Glory’s skull, too.”

I chuckle without humor, glancing down and shaking my head. “You’re fucking with me.”

“No. I want their skulls.”

My foot bounces where it’s crossed over my knee, and I fold my arms over my chest. “And your son’s skull? I suppose you want his, too?”

Her brow furrows, looking at me as if that’s the most ridiculous thing that’s been said during this entire conversation. “No, I don’t want my son’s skull. I wouldn’t have asked you to kill him if it could be avoided, but sometimes you have to sacrifice to get what you really want…what you really deserve.”

I need a fucking cigarette.

Rage pulses through my veins, causing my legs to twitch. This whole thing should be easy. The universe delivered Glory and Huxley to me on a silver goddamn platter, as if it were my destiny to do this deed for Maura. They came to me before she even asked for their deaths, but fucking hell.

Their skulls?

The vision flashes through my mind—the two of them dead on the floor, blood spilling and splashing from Glory’s corpse as I saw through her perfect, porcelain neck to detach her head; a vision of peeling her face from the bone to reveal the skull beneath and cleaning it to deliver to Maura.

A ripple of nausea rolls through my stomach and I shake my head to clear the visual. I want to destroy Glory in thousands of ways, but not like that…never like that.

I want her eyes on me.

I want her moans to meet my ears.

I want her hands on my flesh.

I want my name falling from her lips.

And Huxley…I want his tears and his agony as I fuck him harder than he can stand. When I’ve finished with him, I want him begging for more.

The thought of them dead fucks with my mind. I rake a shaking hand through my unkempt hair and push to my feet, anxious to get outside and light up a cigarette to calm my nerves.

“Two skulls, then. Is there anything else you want, Maura? I’d like to get the fuck away from you now.”

She crosses her arms. “How long do you think it will take?”

“It’ll take as long as it takes.”

“I want it done by the end of the week or the deal is off.”

“The deal’s not fucking off. Beau is already dead. I’m a third of the way done and you’re not backing out now.”

She holds up a single finger from her crossed forearms. “One week, Ambrose. Find them, kill them, and bring me Beau and Glory’s skulls. Otherwise, you can kiss your freedom goodbye.”