Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(6)

It takes me a moment to recognize the voice as the man from my father’s earlier circle—and a second longer to remember him from the night my entire life flipped over on its axis. Fear invades my bloodstream like a virus, and I renew my struggle against him, kicking and scratching at his hands on my neck.

One drops to the zipper of my dress and yanks hard, baring my breasts to him. He cups the right one with a meaty paw, squeezing my nipple so hard I cry out from the pain.

His free hand slaps over my mouth, and I bite down on whatever part of his palm I can fit between my teeth; swearing under his breath, the man jerks back, releasing me just enough to shove me onto the ground.

I land on my hands and knees, the force of my fall knocking the wind from my chest. The paintbrush slips out from between my breasts, clattering to the floor, and I only have a second to consider my impulse before it turns into action.

“I’m gonna enjoy fucking you up again,” the man says, chuckling darkly behind me.

Fisting the paintbrush, I break off the end on the concrete floor, leaving the handle jagged.

Hands grab my shoulders, and then he’s tugging roughly, turning me over to face him. I roll with the movement, letting him think I’ve lost the will to fight.

When I’m on my back, I grip the brush tight, lift my arm, and drive it into his neck with every ounce of strength I can muster.

Blood spurts immediately from the side where the brush protrudes, and the man’s eyes go wide, his hands coming up to touch the site. My chest heaves, and I stare up at him while he gapes, trying to place him in my memory.

I can’t, and it infuriates me even more.

A choking sound comes from the back of his throat, and I use his shock to shove him away, squirming out from under his weight.

The man collapses onto his side and yanks the brush out, placing his hand over the wound as if that might help. If anything, it just seems to make the blood pump out faster.

Chest heaving, I reach down and pull my zipper back up, adrenaline racing through my veins. I’m covered in crimson like some sort of psychotic murderer, and all I can do is stare at the man and wonder what the fuck I’ve done.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” I chant softly, blinking over and over, as if that might change the reality before me.

“Seems a bit counterproductive to be praying now, love. Don’t you think?”

My head snaps up as a tall man in an all-black suit steps onto the balcony, hands in his pockets and curly, dark-brown hair blowing slightly with the wind.

But it’s his eyes I focus on. Deep violet one step and impossible, angry blue the next.

For some reason, I recognize them.

Recognize the British accent.

And I know I’m in trouble.





3





Seafoam-green eyes stare up at me, wide and unfocused like two shards of opaque glass.

Strands of golden-brown hair have fallen from the intricate bun at the nape of her neck, and her red dress sits awkwardly on her tits. Her chest heaves, a high tide waxing and waning as she gulps down mouthfuls of air.

Deep-red stains mar her chest, painting her skin like a serial killer’s wet dream.

But as I step closer, it’s not panic I see.

It’s excitement.

Or at least a close cousin to the emotion, radiating from her tanned skin in harsh waves.

I’m not exactly sure what I’ve just stumbled upon, but I’ll admit I’m no longer cross over the detour I took to get here.

On a reflex, my arm extends, fingers spreading outward.

She blinks.

Doesn’t move.

I clear my throat and withdraw my offer, adjusting the necktie at the collar of my suit. All black, like Alistair suggested, to keep me as inconsequential as possible. Makes it far easier to hide in the shadows and prey on the unsuspecting.

“Well, this is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” My brows arch, and I wait for her to respond. After a few more moments of stillness, I exhale, step over the corpse, and lean against the balcony. “Not every day you witness a murder. Which of us do you think should tell the party downstairs?”

Tapping my fingers along the wooden beam, I scan the landscaped yard. My eyes rove over sprawling green grass, circling around the cobblestone courtyard and the maze of hedges that lead to a secret garden and the beach beyond.

You can’t access the shore unless you scale the stone wall surrounding Primrose Manor, but it’s there, nonetheless.

Most of the guests linger inside, where they’re more likely to uncover family secrets.

I’m not interested in them.

I already know them all.

What I want is revenge.

And while I’d planned to make patriarch Tom my target, I don’t necessarily mind starting with his beloved daughter instead.

This path promises much more fun.

Heaving a long sigh, I bend so my forearms rest on the rail. The girl exists in my peripheral, still mostly unmoving, although now I see she’s staring at the dead man. Studying him like some sort of science project.

“It might behoove you to have a witness explain the turn of events.” Pausing, I wait for her to refute this. Still, she doesn’t. “Although, I can’t be certain of what transpired before you stabbed the lad. Perhaps it’s best if you make the announcement. Party’s yours, after all.”

From the corner of my eye, I see her chin jerk in my direction; the movement is infinitesimal. Something you’d miss if you weren’t paying the utmost attention.