Page 70 of Taunting Tarran
‘Yeah?’
‘I have a job for you,’ Sal cutsstraight to the point. ‘High priority.’
I knock back the last shot of whiskey as his plan clicks into place. Loose ends have always been a poison I’ve never tolerated, and Emma and the mercenaries were the kind that festered.
‘There’s one other thing, Sal.’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Ms Dubois.’
‘Oh yes, the skin girl,’ he nods.
‘The skin girl?’
‘The museum curator,’ he corrects. Sal sits across from me, his fascination with Ms Dubois practically radiating off him. His eyes flicker with a hunger – not the kind fuelled by anger, but by a need for action. That Desert Eagle hasn’t seen much use, and I can tell he’s itching for it. I lean back, studying him carefully, contemplating the situation. Sal knows how to handle himself, how to navigate through situations – and Marguerite, well, she’s a thorn – a danger with just enough charm to make her lethal. Letting Sal take the lead would be a risk, yes, but I also trust him not to let me down.
‘Use her fascination against her,’ I say, ‘you’re intrigued by her, aren’t you, Sal?’
He pauses before answering. ‘She’s impressive, boss. A sharp mind, a taste for the unconventional. She’s...’
‘Different,’ I interrupt.
He nods. ‘She’s more than just a looseend, boss, she’s a challenge.’
We both know how I enjoy a challenge.
As Sal leaves my office, I signal to the staff I’m leaving for the night. My fury simmers. Emma’s betrayal to Tarran a jagged wound that refuses to heal. My hands clench, nails biting into flesh until the sting of blood is the only thing grounding me. It’s a fragile tether, but it’s all I’ve got.
I think of Tarran, the mere thought of her enough to slow the tempest growing inside me.Shekeeps me grounded. The memory of her – those soft, cinnamon strands slipping through my fingers – reminds me of why I’m doing this.
I’ve never needed someone like I need her.
Her warmth is a fire I cannot escape, her smell like a haunting melody. She’s everything I should resist, yet the ache of needing her is a wound I can’t stop pressing. She’s the only one who can pull me back, even if she doesn’t realise she’s the fire she’s extinguishing.
From the shadows I watch her. I’ve been watching her every day since I brought her back home. I don’t watch her with mere curiosity, but more of a fixation – an obsession. Slowly, she moves through her world, adjusting back into a sense of normalcy. There, without me, there is light - a future.
From the shadows, I catch sight of her – a quiet figure bathed in a soft glow. She stands by a window, motionless, as if waiting, as if knowing, and like every night, I forget to breathe. She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, an ordinary gesture made extraordinary because it’s her.
I don’t just see her. I study her, like a puzzle I cannot solve. Every expression, every shift of her body I capture and file away like a thief hoarding stolen goods.
Do you think of me, Tarran, as often as I do of you?
Has she noticed the way I linger in her life?
I make sure she does.
I still break in. She’ll see things no one else would; a chair, just slightly askew, a book, missing from the shelf, and the delicate petals of a single rose resting where they shouldn’t be. It would be just enough to leave her unsettled, and remind her that solitude is just an illusion. I’m always here, just out of sight. Watching. Waiting.
But until I tie up those loose ends, her life will hang in the balance, tethered to the chaos I’ve allowed to spill into her life – loose ends that dangle like knives ready to cut us both.
Soon, those loose ends will be tied, the threats extinguished, and then I’ll be free to have what I can’t allow myself to have now. Until then, the ache remains, the distance between us the only thing keeping her safe. I return to my car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the tension turns my knuckles white.
Marguerite Dubois slipped out of the Warfare Games early, a disgruntled client who had a thing for Tarran – that’s the kind of thing that makes her dangerous. I can still recall Sal’s voice telling me about herMusee des Moulagesin Montpellier – her sanctuary, her lair, with her trophies laid out in plain sight for all to admire. Leaving her alive wasn’t an act of mercy – it was amistake, and one I intend to correct. I’d almost forgotten about Ms Dubois, and her skin fetish, assuming she’d slink back into the fold next year.
How silly of me. Why would she?
She walked away with nothing but the sting of loss - tens of thousands gone, slipping through her fingers like the bolt from her crossbow. No closure, no redemption, just the bitter taste of dissatisfaction clinging to the back of her throat. She’s a threat I can’t ignore. She’s the only one left, the only survivor of that night, and the only one that knows about Tarran. She’s a dissatisfied witness carrying the knowledge of my secrets, so revenge isn’t just a possibility, it’s almost a certainty if I let her slip away.
Oh, Marguerite Dubois – my little phantom. You think you’re safe, slipping away from the Warfare Games, vanishing into the shadows. Cleverness only gets you so far when you’re marked.
Soon, you’ll know what it’s like to be hunted, to feel that predatory gaze, and when the moment comes, when fear finally flickers in your eyes – it won’t be just satisfying. It will be righteous.
Because in my world, loose ends aren’t given the luxury of fading away quietly, they’re severed.
Permanently.
