Preys. Plural.
I bound along the pavement, no longer avoiding the light from lampposts. I have to push myself harder. He’s fast—probably hearing me behind him—but I’m surprised Bella’s even faster. I’d put that to being chased by two people.
When I near him, I crouch lower, and with a burst of energy, I tackle him to the ground. There’s no one around to witness the fight. His hood falls back during his attempt to push me off him, and I kick my leg out, knocking his hand out from under him. Gripping his hair, I use the force of his fall to slam his face into the concrete.
I’m mildly disappointed by how easy it is. Why does no one put up a decent fight?
He groans, and I shut him up by slamming him again. Straddling him around his midsection, I lean down to wrap my arms around his throat. He gasps for breath and wiggles as I move closer to him to put him in a headlock.
This was easy. Too easy.
I don’t notice his leg move until I’m thrown onto my back with a huff. My hold on his neck doesn’t let up until his elbow makes contact with my ribs. Pain thunders through my side, loosening my hold on him. He takes advantage of the opening and breaks out of my grip.
“Fucking cunt,” he growls as he turns, lifting his fist.
I laugh and lunge for him before he can punch me, and we both roll around on the ground like prepubescent children trying to get the upper hand. I manage to get him under me once more, laying hit after hit. If his face was bloody before, red is the only color on his skin now.
He doesn’t stop trying to block me or push me off. Still, my attacks keep coming, one fist right after the other. Fury fuels each of my movements until his body goes limp, and he stops breathing.
I hiss from the pain in my side as I pull myself onto my feet. “Dickhead,” I mutter and kick him in the ribs as payback. Looking around, I try to find a place to stash his body. The last thing I need is a bunch of cops snooping around the area because of him. That would put a kink in my plans.
I spot a rose bush behind us belonging to the nicest property on the block, shrugging to myself. I guess that’s good enough.
Keeping an eye out for witnesses, I drag him by his hoodie into the shadows behind the roses. I made a mistake once about not checking for witnesses. I won’t do it again. Shoving him under the rose bushes, I try to cover his body as much as possible. Whoever’s grandma lives here better not look out the window tomorrow morning. Let’s hope someone else finds his body first; if not… Rest in peace, Grandma.
A light layer of sweat clings to my back by the time I have him hidden away, and I’m itching to get back to staring at Bella. I crack my neck and head toward her house. She doesn’t realize how long I’ve been waiting to make her all mine. I stop in my tracks right where I pummeled the guy into the concrete with a sudden thought:
Roses. Bella likes roses.
With the minimal light of a singular streetlamp, I pick the first flower I can somewhat see. I move closer to the lamppost and use my sleeve to wipe the man’s blood off the petal. My feet automatically keep taking me in the direction I want to go while I focus on breaking off all the thorns.
I reach my car first, laying the flower on the backseat in exchange for my bag of supplies. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a skip in my step as I make the short trip to Bella’s house, where I plant myself across the street.
And now I wait.
I tap my fingers in no particular rhythm on my leg, then bounce my foot on the ground. Bella’s going to regret ignoring me, Marcus will regret touching her, and Greg will regret being a useless, perverted piece of shit.
As I stand and wait, the light from the TV flashes behind the curtains downstairs. Right above it, the lamp in Marcus’s room is on. Excitement burns beneath my skin and grows the second the lights in Bella’s room go off.
What I should do is wait for another half an hour until I’m sure she’s asleep. Again, that’s what I should do. Without a second thought, I cross the street. In a matter of seconds, my feet are on the porch railing, and I’m pulling myself up onto the awning. Her window is wide open; there’s no way she won’t hear me.
Quietly, I crawl up the side of the house, closer to her room. I’m counting the seconds until she sticks her head out and catches me, but it never happens. I frown, thinking she isn’t in there. Peeking inside, I relax when I hear the sound of her steady breaths.
It’s too early for her to be asleep. The thought that she worked herself to the bone today and fell asleep an hour earlier than usual unsettles me. From now on, that’s going to change. She’ll never have to work again if she doesn’t want to. If being a trophy wife is the life she wants, then being a trophy wife is the life she’ll have.