Page 8 of Waging War
She used to call me her angel, and until now, I always loved Mom’s endearment. It doesn’t exactly fit, given all the pain I’ve imagined inflicting on those who’ve hurt me.
I raise a shaking hand to my back and flatten my fingers over the tattoo there. Mom always loved angels. She told me she saw one once as a child when she’d nearly drowned in a river, but just before she went unconscious, a glowing, golden light broke through the water. Mom swore it guided her to the safety of the riverbed even though she had no memory of what happened afterward.
I always believed her.
Tears stream anew. The tattoo spreads across my shoulders, all the way down my back, and I swear I feel the intricate black-and-gray wings heating beneath my fingers.
We were best friends. We used to stay up late painting each other’s toenails and eating junk food till our bellies ached as we watched silly movies. She would always tell me I was her favorite daughter.
I’d giggle. “Mom, I’m youronlydaughter.”
“My one and only,” she’d say with that sunshine smile of hers as she booped my nose.
God, how I despise them—Jackie, Diablo, even Ben. Juliana told me I could trust him, but she was wrong. He could have let me escape with them instead of locking me back up in that cold mansion basement.
The way Ben held me against him as I wailed into his chest had me hoping for the tiniest moment that maybe he would let me go. Then those strong arms tucked me in close before whisking me away, giving me a false sense of security.
He whispered into my hair that everything would be alright as he brought me back to our enemy’s stronghold. But it’snotalright. My father is dead, and though Ben wasn’t the one to pull the trigger, he damn sure did nothing to help me.
Feeling especially stabby, I gather myself and head to the shower to rinse off.
The hot water builds steam around the small space as I glare at the woman in the mirror. The woman I used to be is buried deep beneath my need for revenge, and the sight of this new version is frightening.
I’ve been plucked from the real world and dropped into an alternate universe. Each week, like clockwork, a random man comes to drop off food and toiletries. They always ask if there’s anything else I need, and I never fail to respond with the same answer.
“You may want to take some notes,” I told the hulking man who towered over me last time. Waiting patiently for him to grab a pen, I smiled my best smile. “Tell Jackie I’ll be satisfied once my knife is buried between the bones in his neck and his blood is coating my fingertips.”
Makes me sad when they don’t actually write it down. How else is Jackie supposed to know that I sleep most soundly while dreaming of his demise?
The heated water pounds against my fatigued muscles. I take my time scrubbing and rinsing my hair, not bothering with the blow-dryer afterward. It’s not like anyone is going to see me.
No phone. No computer. Nothing but me, myself, and hours of rom-coms and action movies on Netflix—my only companion and connection to the outside world.
I hear a loud thud as I rub lotion on my legs, and my hands still over my calf. It’s three thirty in the afternoon, and last I checked, it’s Tuesday. Bruce and Jackie’s men don’t visit until Friday.
The sound is louder this time, and my heart promptly leaps into my throat.
To my knowledge, no one knows I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know wherehereis, or if I’m still in Mackville. I was given another lovely dose of Rhyomine and then transplanted while unconscious.
There are no weapons in the apartment. The butter knives I use to practice impaling Jackie are the closest thing I’ve got, and even those are a reach to cause any real damage. A fork might work, but it’ll take too long to grab one from where I stand in the bathroom. Plus, it might get a little messy.
“Think, think, think.” Shifting my gaze around the small bathroom, my eyes land on my razor and I snatch it up. Not much better than a fork but… “It’ll have to do.”
Armed with my weapon, I clutch the towel around my body and crack the door open. I’m hardly breathing, roving my eyes around the white walls to the plain brown couch, and finally, the kitchen.
There’s a tall, muscled man dressed all in black standing in front of the sink. His broad back is to me, and I watch as the nosy bastard begins opening and closing cabinets and sifting through my things.
If he’s come to take advantage of me, he’ll soon realize his mistake. I’m much stronger than I once was, and angrier too.
What’s that they say about a woman scorned?
Hell hath no fury.
I pad a few feet away from the bathroom with my razor extended in front of me. “Who are you?” My voice sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment.
The man, who is now crouched, rummaging through my refrigerator, freezes before slowly straightening to his full height and peeking over the open door.
My jaw drops. That slick black hair. Those denim-colored eyes. I kissed that five o’clock shadow as a thanks for helping to save me and Jules. I could never forget the face of the man who betrayed me.
