Page 227 of Poison Aches

I glance around the room, trying to find the exit.

I spot three doors from where I stand and the real kicker is, I don’t know which one of those leads out of the room.

Fuck.

“Didn’t you just say you’re not scared of me?” Emmett questions sarcastically, obviously mocking me. “Why are you backing away?”

This time, the shudder that goes through me is powerful enough to almost knock me to my ass, but by some miracle I manage to hold still.

But see, as I back away, I’m facing him, so I don’t see where I’m going until my feet step into something sticky, thick, and cold.

Not daring to look away from Emmett, I keep going, but then I watch as something flashes in Emmett’s eyes.

Mirth.

Pure, unadulterated evil mirth as if he’s amused by what I’m doing.

Or rather, he’s amused by where I’m standing right now, close to where he was just painting on his canvas hanging on the easel.

Slowly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I look down to what I just stepped into.

In the back of my mind, I think it’s paint when I spot the dark red.

But then I look closely at the red.

I’ve seen this kind of red before.

This texture of red.

This slippery kind of red.

It’s blood. And I’m pretty sure it’s human blood.

It’s broad daylight. There’s a million-dollar view from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom. I can see the entire gorgeous view of Central Park from here…but thebeautiful backdrop falls into nothingness as I turn around, following the sea of red that’s now coating my feet.

My heart constricts in my chest, shrinking with fear because somehow, with Emmett’s piercing gaze on me and the red at my feet, I think I already know what I will find.

And I’m right.

The sea of red is indeed human blood.

A human being that’s now in the past tense. A scumbag of a human being that was, just hours ago, whispering and laughing, pretending like nothing happened.

Jackson lies dead on his back, with his mutilated and maimed body on full display.

His head is cracked in several places, as if his skull was bashed and flattened, that’s where most of the blood is.

But the eeriest thing about it all is that his eyes are wide open, looking up at me.

And at his sides are the chopped-off hands and right in the palm of one hand is something, a piece of flesh.

I have no idea what it is, but the longer I stare at it, the longer I notice what it is.

Jackson’s severed penis.

CHAPTER 30

Ivy

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