Page 44 of The Heir
"This is all very entertaining," the Nephilim interrupts. "But how is this supposed to impress me?"
"Just watch," Ella assures him.
I hear her footsteps clomp over, and I crane my neck to look up at her looming figure. Her gleeful grin strikes fear deep in my bones. Why? What? No, everything was great—why is she so scary? Her bright red hair shines under the moonlight, and her teeth morph into long, sharp fangs. Gasping, I try to scoot away, but my hands are still bound. Fuck!
Panic coils around my gut, squeezing the breath from my lungs. No. No. No. I watch in horror as I wriggle on the ground—Ella raises a long metal rod with… something buzzing on the tip. She presses it to my thigh, and an electric shock arcs through my body. My vision blanks out, and every cell of my being screams.
As quickly as it came, the pain disappears. I gasp in a whimpering breath, and with it comes a sizzling rage. Grinding my teeth, I squint open my eyes and fix a glare at Ella. I can see her pulse feather in her neck. I want to rip her open. I want to bathe in her blood. I want to stomp her skull in.
"No, no." She kneels down and strokes my forehead. "Not me.Him."
I watch as she points to the scruffy man in handcuffs. Cocking my head to the side, I study him. Helooksfamiliar. He blows the jet black strands of hair away from his eyes. Oh, his beautiful green eyes. They're so comforting. They're soloving. I can't hurt him—can I? No, I can't. I love him. I don't know how, but I love him.
But just behind him, there's a haughty pale man sitting on a bench. I curl back my lips and bare my teeth at the man in white. He stares at me with disinterest and disgust. Oh, yes.Him.
The pressure around my wrists disappears. I look down to find the handcuffs gone and up to see Ella clipping them around her belt loop. Shakily, I push myself upright and flex my hands. It feelssogood. But my hands twitch; they want to attack. They want to shred. And who am I to deny them?
Especially when the man in white crosses his arms and studies me like an insect. Oh, yeah. It's time to fuckin' go.
I shove Ella away, all of my focus onhim. I race toward him, and before he can react, I tackle him from his seat. The back of his head hits the dirt with athud. Someone shouts "No!" but I don't give a fuck. Laughter rips from my lungs, and I squeeze my thighs around him. God, it feels fuckingincredible. It's like something has overtaken my body, but I know it hasn't—it's me. It's all me. I am the goddess of pain. I am the goddess of war. And I am going to sacrifice this man at my altar.
I clamp my hands around his throat andsqueeze. He claws at my hands and arms, but I barely feel it. All I can feel is the warm pressure between my legs. I can feel the tiny trickle of air entering his windpipe. That won't do. That simply won't do. I switch from my hand to my forearm, leaning down with all of my weight. The gurgles and gasps he makes as his eyes widen aredivine.
Someone grabs my shoulders, but I shrug them off. I think someone's telling me "No, no, no," but I don't pay any attention whatsoever. My singular focus is to choke the life from the pale man. His face turns red, but his lips turn blue. Spit flies from his mouth as he screams (or tries to). He flails wildly under my weight. In this moment, I wish I were heavier. The bare minimum of food Ella's given us isnotenough.
I want to crush him. I want to stomp him into a fine paste. Letting out a feral scream, I bear down with all of my strength. I relish in the crackling of his throat. Blood vessels pop in his eyes as he stares into my face. He doesn't have that look of superiority anymore—he only has fear. Fear of the unknown and fear of his death. I bark out a laugh.
"You're gonna die," I sing. "You're gonna die, Nephilim. How does it feel? Is it scary? Does it hurt?"
"Keep going, Melody!" My husband's voice fills my mind. "Keep going, love! You're amazing! You can do it!"
Icando it. Whatever Ella injected me with seems to have given me an extra spurt of strength. I don't know how long it's been, but the pale man finally stops fighting. His eyes lose their focus. His hands drop to the dirt. I can't feel his pulse in his throat anymore. Ever so carefully, I remove myself and stand.
Inspecting his face, a crease forms between my brows. I study the globs of saliva that gather at the corners of his mouth. I reach out and touch his paper white skin. It's warm—and he fuckingtwitches. Flinching, I realize he's still alive. No. Not good.
I rear back my foot and kick his temple with all of my strength. The impact reverberates up my leg, and I feelconnected. I am connected to this dying man. It's my duty and my right to take him out. His head lolls to the side. What was it I wanted to do?
Oh, right. Stomp. And god, does it feel fucking amazing. The bottom of my foot connects with his face, and I feel the deliciouscrunchof bone. His warm blood coats my skin. It's practically electric. The sticky heat sends a jolt of joy up my spine. I'm going to return him to the earth.
I don't know when I started screaming, but my voice feels ragged and rough. I swear to god, the stars eggme on. I shriek and scream and wail into the nighttime air as I pummel the pale man's head into the ground. A shard of bone slices into the sole of my foot, and I wince.
"He's dead, love, he's dead!" Dante yells. "You killed the Nephilim!"
Panting, I turn and survey the yard. Dante struggles against Hannah's hold—is she that strong?—and Ella… Ella doesn't look upset. She isn't grieving. No, she smiles ferociously and claps.
"The Nephilim is dead. And now? I will replace him."
Oh, shit.
Dante
Dread. Dread and panic. That's all I feel. I can't feel Hannah's grip on my cuffs anymore—all of the blood drains from my face as Ella cackles into the night over the corpse of the Nephilim.
Whirling around, I plant the heel of my foot in Hannah's gut and smirk as she falls back. Ella's laughter turns to an enraged shriek behind me, and I think Melody tackled her. I plop down onto a knee and pressHannah's squirming body into the dirt—I know she has the fucking keys. Wrenching my cuffed arms to her pocket, I rifle around and toss capped syringes aside. God, how much medication does she carry?
Hannah coughs as I bear down on my knee, switching to the other pocket. I couldn't give a single shit, especially when my fingers close around the key ring. Grunting in triumph, I wrench them from her pocket and frantically shove keys into the cuffs. Relief seeps into my bones as the cuffs—thankfully—snap open. I'm free.
I'm fucking free.
