was mine . . .
The knife in my jacket was already crying out for his blood. Just a shame it wasn’t crying out for hers, too. Not anymore. Not until I’d taken every scrap of her soul and made it mine.
I set off at full speed, her clutch still clasped tight with me. I turned the corner at the bottom of the street, crashing into a couple walking up the other way, clearly ready to hit the party.
“Have you seen a girl with blonde hair? Beautiful thing, hanging off some brute in rock gear?”
They shook their heads, and the guy answered. “Nah, sorry, man. Ain’t seen anyone much this way.”
I was off without so much as a blink, scanning the street signs as I made my way closer. Fifth Avenue. Fifth fucking Avenue. I nearly got myself killed when a car came speeding the other way on Fourth Avenue, but it managed to brake just in time with a blare of the horn.
“Fucking asshole!” the driver yelled through the window, and I would’ve usually challenged him, just for his insult, but I didn’t. I kept on sprinting.
My cell was directing me fast and clear, and my legs were carrying me with everything they had. My breaths were ragged, but not just from the sprint, it was from the rage. The challenge. And I hated to admit it. I hated to admit it with every piece of self that I had. But it was fear.
I was scared to find Elaine Constantine taking another man’s cock.
When I turned the corner into Fifth Avenue my blood was pounding in my ears. Block Twelve was down at the bottom end, and I was cursing all the way, still gripping that damn clutch under my arm as my damn knife bayed for his blood.
Block Twelve was a dive. The top floor had lights on in murky orange. I checked the main entrance but the keys didn’t fit the lock, and that’s when I saw it – the glimpse of a metal railing up by the top floor. The entrance doorway was up there.
I was an animal as I raced around to that staircase. I leaped up the rusty metal steps three at a time, and I could hear her. I could hear my Elaine inside there, and she was crying out.
Holy fuck, she was crying out. Crying out loud, crying out hard, crying out for help. My Elaine was crying out for help.
I’d never felt anything like the protective cesspit of rage inside me. It was scorching. Burning. Ready for the kill.
I didn’t need the key, just barged my way right in, and there she was, up against the wall with that cunt up against her, her dress hitched up high around her waist. He turned to face me with a sneer, but I wasn’t interested in his face, I was interested in hers. There were tears running down her beautiful cheeks, her eyes big and glassy as they saw me there . . . and the rage in me exploded. It exploded in liquid hate.
“What the–?” the prick began, but he didn’t get the chance to finish.
In the quickest flash of my life I was up against him, slamming against him hard as my hand reached inside my jacket.
And in that flicker of a heartbeat the blade went into his guts.
Take it.
Take it, cunt.
Once. Twice. Three times. I twisted that blade and fucked up his insides like the mess of a man he was.
His mouth opened, and he paled, and he knew it, even as he stumbled away with his hands to his stomach, he knew it. He was dying. He collapsed, and I stared down at him with a sneer of my own. The knife hung limp in my hand, blood splattered everywhere, including over my beautiful Constantine bitch’s dress.
And that’s when she truly started crying.
20
Elaine
I could hear my tears. Loud sobs from my chest as it heaved and lurched. I could hear them, but I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel anything, just the buzz in my ears as I stared over at the man with the knife in his hand.
Lucian.
Lucian Morelli was really there. Really standing there with a bloody knife in his hand, staring at the man he’d just butchered. He’d just butchered Stephen from London. He’d just butchered Stephen from London for me. To save me.
There was blood on me too, splattered all over my dress. The fabric was still hitched up above my thighs, my panties still torn