“Technology can do anything. Its only limitation is its creator,” Zade says.
She grins, and I see something twinkle in her eye that she’s stolen from so many. From me.
Hope.
But it doesn’t belong to her—it belongs to the souls she’s responsible for breaking.
“You see? We can do anything,” she breathes. “I believe you have no limitations.”
Zade’s stare darkens, and the tightness in my chest eases.
“You’re right, Claire. I don’t.”
She completely misinterprets his meaning because her smile only widens, too blinded by the possibilities to see what’s lying in wait.
“You already have power,” I remind her. “You’re a shadow government that controls the entire country. More so now with your partners dead. That’s not enough for you? Now you want world domination?”
She leans forward, baring her teeth as she hisses, “Maybe your puny brain isn—”
“You know what your problem is?” Zade cuts in. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about forming an alliance. Do you really think insulting her is going to get you anywhere?” Zade stands, and though I can see Claire fighting with herself, she forces her spine straight. Her bodyguards take aim, but Zade moves as if he’s encased in bulletproof armor.
My heart picks up speed, adrenaline surfacing because the bozo does not, in fact, have on bulletproof armor, and if one bullet comes anywhere near him, I’m going to fucking lose it.
“Belittling those who support you isn’t smart. Haven’t you read the history books? Using fear to demand respect is a fragile construct. It doesn’t last because no one can trust you, and the first opportunity they have to betray you, they take. Z isn’t built on fear, Claire. It’s built on the mutual desire to kill people like you. And you know what? My organization trusts me to do that.”
Her eyes widen, sensing the incoming doom before it happens. A line of bombs is planted along the front of the distillery, right below where Claire’s men are standing. In seconds, the explosives detonate, creating a deafening blast.
The force of the explosion sends us back a step or two, and I cover my face as debris flies around us. We made sure the bomb wasn’t so powerful that it’d send the building crashing down around us, but enough to blow someone—or someones—to pieces.
A few of her guards who were standing on the outskirts wriggle, missing limbs but still alive and set on going out in a blaze of glory. They’re shot dead before they can lift their guns towards Zade and me, his team behind us and hiding in the depths of the distillery.
Zade seizes Claire by the throat and lifts her in the air, a snarl overtaking his face. Her eyes bulge as fire rages behind her, washing her in the very glow her soul will forever be consumed in.
“You sent my world crashing down around me just like this, remember? Setting off bombs and then taking Addie from me. How does it feel, Claire? To have come so close to succeeding, only for your soul to be ripped away instead?”
She kicks her legs desperately, trying and failing to gain some type of footing to relieve the chokehold Zade has her in. Clawing his skin, she leaves trails as red as the paint on her nails.
“Would you like to do the honors, baby?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me with eyes as bright as the fire before us. Something deep and carnal flickers in my stomach, and I can’t deny the excitement thrumming in my bloodstream any more than Zade can.
“Yes,” I smile, approaching the pair. He readjusts, gripping Claire by the nape and holding her in place, despite her desperate efforts to get away. Clutching my black and purple knife tightly, I lift it to her throat, pressing until blood sprouts beneath the blade.
This woman is responsible for every one of my demons. I was fairly normal before the Society laid eyes on me. And while fear and adrenaline always did something inexplicable to me, the thought of murdering someone was repulsive. It was something I rallied against when Zade came into my life, and even when I fell in love with him, it was something that I hadn’t fully accepted yet.
And now look—she’s faced with her own creation, an angel of death with a knife to her throat and intoxicated by the sight of her blood.
“Please!” she begs shrilly. “We can work something out!”
“You reap what you sow, Claire,” I say, then slowly slice the knife across her throat, cutting through sinew and muscle. Blood splatters across my face, but I rejoice in the feel of it. I stop right before the jugular, wanting her death to be a slow and painful one.