Dead Against Her （Bree Taggert, #5）
Melinda Leigh
CHAPTER ONE
Hate is a living thing, a seed to be planted and watered. If adequately nourished, it blooms and grows. When the conditions are just right, it acts like an invasive species and takes over, obliterating the original plants, blocking their sunlight and oxygen.
Starving them.
Until they die.
I consider my own hate, carefully tended, fertilized with years of imagining this very moment. The hand holding the gun feels disconnected from my brain. The hate is possessing me.
Controlling me.
I study the two people securely tied to chairs before me. Ironically, beneath the intensity of my hatred, I feel oddly detached.
The man tugs at his binds, but they don’t give. I know how to tie a fucking knot. His mouth quivers. He’s trying to play it cool, but he can’t pull it off. Sweat beads on his upper lip, and the wide whites of his eyes reveal his terror. Next to him, the old woman—his mother—is still. She’s too frail to fight back. Her end is near, and she knows it. She’s the smarter of the two.
I focus on him. After all, he’s the reason I’m here.
He opens his mouth but emits only a croak. Panic is constricting his throat. I know the feeling well.
He swallows hard, then speaks. He’s trying to conceal his fear, and his voice comes out too loud. “Don’t do this. You’re going to regret it.”
Will I, though?
Regret is a funny emotion. By definition, you can’t experience it until after the fact. So who knows?
What I’m doing is wrong. I know that. I enjoy his fear much more than I should. I breathe it in, like the scent of a meal I’ve been preparing for days and finally get to eat. Anticipation has whetted my appetite until I am ravenous. The pull of the trigger will be utterly satisfying. Deep in my bones, I suspect this could be the very deed that makes me whole again.
I cock my head. “I don’t think so.”
Tied to the chair next to him, the old woman whimpers. Tears pour down her cheeks. She’s spent too much time in the sun. Her skin is as wrinkled as a paper bag and mottled with spots. While she isn’t my primary target, she isn’t exactly an innocent either. She’s made selfish choices. She birthed and raised a monster. She enabled him. She knows what he is. She’s always known, even if she prefers to ignore his innate viciousness. But is this really her fault? Unconditional love is a natural part of parenthood, but it should have limits. You should be able to love someone without ignoring the damage they inflict upon others.
Vaguely, I register that I should feel some kind of pity for her. He’s put her in a tough position. Instead, I’m filled with a comfortable vacantness, as if my heart is as hollow as a dead tree.
“You can leave now, and we won’t tell anyone,” he begs.
I should have gagged him. I really don’t want to have a conversation. Or do I? I don’t need to explain my actions. He knows how we got to this place. He knows he’s at fault. But maybe I need to revel in his pain. Did he take pleasure in mine?
Probably.
That’s the kind of man he is. He’s caused plenty of people distress in his lifetime. He’s a bastard. A bully. A user.
A new thought pops into my head. Maybe he’s the parasite, feeding on other people’s suffering like a plant absorbs sunlight. He’s an invasive vine that needs to be pulled from the garden by the root. Like poison ivy, eliminating him will leave a mark, but it must be done.
He licks his lips. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve never killed anyone. It’ll ruin you.”
“I guess I’ll find out.” Tormenting him sends a rush of pleasure through me. The tables are finally turned in my favor. “How does it feel to be helpless? To know you’re going to die?”
He clamps his mouth shut, and his face goes as pale as ice.
The old woman cries out, then begins mumbling a prayer. She repeats the words over and over. They prickle my nerves and stoke my hate higher. God didn’t answer my prayers. He let me suffer. How dare she ask for His intervention now, when she’s finally paying the price for her sins.
I point the gun at her. “Shut up.”
But she moans.
Fury rushes through me and words burst out. “I am in charge!”
Control slides further away, and I don’t bother to reach for it. I lunge forward, press the gun to her head, and pull the trigger. She slumps instantly. Her death is so fast, so abrupt, it’s almost anticlimactic. But then, her death isn’t my priority.