Page 46 of The Good Girl

“So what was I?” Her fingers are pulling at my clothes as she tries to get closer, as if she’s afraid I’m going to vanish.

“My friend,” I say simply.

The house was dark when we arrived.

“But I love you!” she cries, snot and tears soaking into my shirt.

“And I told you not to. I warned you, Blythe.”

Where did the glasses come from?

Swallowing hard, she looks up at me with unfocused eyes. “I’m going to kill her. You’ll have to love me then.”

“If you touch a hair on her head, I will gut you. Then I will tear out your entrails and use them as garden fertilizer before grinding up your remains and pulverizing them into a paint for my latest piece,” I say softly as I rock her, aware that I sound like my father.

My father.

She stiffens in my arms, and looks up, finally realizing who I am. I’m not her prince, and while usually I am happy to take a step back and let the others do the dirty work, I am still a member of The Society.

“Did my father arrive home early?” I ask the security guard, and when he nods, it feels like the bottom has dropped out of my world.

Elena.

* * *

I race back up to the house, which feels like it's miles away as my heart hammers in my chest. Maybe he's gone to bed. Maybe he hasn't seen her. No, I know better. Two wine glasses mean he had a guest over. Having a guest over means he's in a bloodthirsty mood. Fucking and killing go hand in hand for my father, and if he's so much as laid a finger on Lena, I'm going to choke him with his own intestines.

“Lena,” I call out as I burst through the front door, sweat beading on my forehead. “Lena!” I'm shouting now. I rush to the bottom of the stairs, ready to run up to my room, praying that she's still sitting on my bed, when I notice a movement in the kitchen.

I approach slowly, not sure what I'm about to find as it feels like a ton of rocks have settled in the pit of my stomach. I mean, last time there was a journalist cut open and tied to a chair, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility that I might find something worse this time. The kitchen is mostly in darkness, with only the spotlights on as I move around the breakfast bar and over to where the dining table is.

I exhale with relief when I see Elena in the shadows.

Standing.

Not tied to a chair.

I inhale, confused, when I see that her gold dress is now soaked in blood, the ruby liquid soaking up the silk as she hovers over my father's body, frying pan in hand.

“What happened?” I whisper as I bend down and check for a pulse. There isn’t one.

“I heard him down here,” she whispers. “I thought he was you.”

“And then?” His face is caved in, barely recognizable, she really did a number on him. Was this her ‘style’ now? Turning people into pulpy messes? If so, we’d need to work on that.

She tilts her head, still clutching the pan. “He was washing blood off his hands... He...he tried to...I grabbed the pan. I didn't know what else to do.”

She isn't crying, but I wonder if she's in shock as she grabs the fabric of her dress and lifts it, to avoid trailing blood through my kitchen as she dumps the dented, deformed pan in the sink.

“You did what you had to.” I try to reassure her as guilt stabs at me. I knew he had a thing for Lena, I knew it, and I brought her here anyway. I should've just taken us to a hotel. I thought he was out of town again, and I’d been reckless not checking. He’d become unpredictable lately, more dangerous, so it was only a matter of time before something happened. I just wish I hadn’t put Lena at risk.

Shrugging, she gently moves her fingers over a tear in her dress. “I lost control.”

My fists ball up as I think of him trying to rip her clothes off. Fucker. “Do you feel out of control?”

“No.” She sounds confused, and it makes me want to hold her, so I do.

I pull her head to my chest as I wrap my arms around her back. “That's because you didn't lose control. You wanted to kill him, and you did. That's progress, not losing it.”

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