I’m about to finish his miserable life when soft, trembling hands touch my arm. Jessica stares up at me with tear-streaked mascara and haunted blue eyes. Her small voice is barely audible when she speaks. “He’s really important and can hurt you.”
No one can. The only two capable of that are long gone.
But I also can’t kill this bastard in front of her when she’s already traumatised.
That’s the only thing that saves him.
I sheath my knife, place an arm on her shoulder, and gently lead her shaking body out of the room. Two guards must’ve heard what happened since they rush my way.
“Clean it up inside,” I tell them while walking Jessica away from the chaos. Sarah intercepts us halfway. Both girls crush each other in a hug and cry aloud.
Seeing their tears causes my own mood to blacken. I would do anything to stop it, but I’m complete rubbish at providing comfort. So I stand awkwardly on the side.
In my peripheral vision, a blonde in a fuchsia tulle skirt sprints down the hall with a huge smile on her face.
My mood flips from awkwardness to murderous.
I take Sarah and Jessica to their room and tell them to find me if they need anything.
“Thank you.” Sarah draws stuttering breaths through her hiccoughs. “We’re so glad you took over.”
Jessica’s gaze appears haunted. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t come. He… he…”
I clutch her shoulder, harder than I’m supposed to. I’m so used to being rough, sometimes I forget that these girls didn’t lead a life similar to mine. “Just rest, okay? Take a few days off and then we’ll talk.”
After I make sure they’re all set, I storm to my office where the blonde headed to.
I swing the door open — obviously in the mood for some action today.
She sips some herbal tea while sitting on a sofa. When crossing her legs, the short tulle skirt barely reaches the middle of her bare thighs. She’s wearing white sandals, her toes painted in glittery pink. Her simple white cotton shirt has ‘I Eat People for Breakfast’ written in more glitter. Everything about her is so tiny. Her height, her nose, and all of her features.
Shadow sits opposite her drinking straight from a bottle of scotch. His stupid tall frame dwarfs the chair. Curly dark blond hair falls across his forehead adding to his nauseatingly charming exterior. The steel grey eyes are the only thing that fits his personality.
I stand by Scar’s side and cross my arms. “Why didn’t you help them?”
She continues sipping from her tea, not sparing me a glance. “How would I know they need help just because they’re crying. I don’t have a sixth sense, you know.”
“Crying is a basic human reaction when someone is in pain.” I point out.
“I thought so, too, but some weirdos cry when they’re happy. How am I supposed to figure it out?” She offers a dramatic — and fake — sigh. “You already played superhero of the day. Why are you being so pissy about?”
The urge to ruin those doll-like features overwhelm me. Even if she knew for certain that the girls are in danger, she probably wouldn’t have bothered. It’s not only because of her inability to discern human emotions, but also because she’s a selfish sick monster under the porcelain doll appearance.
Not that I’m any different, but I at least never pretended to be anything I’m not.
“If something happens to the girls when you could’ve prevented it, I’ll make you pay, Scar,” I warn in my coolest tone.
Her plump pink lips curve into a cunning smile. “Don’t whine from your grave when I’m done with you, witch.”
“Ooh, girl fight. When can I watch?” Shadow grins in a mischievous, sadistic way that fits the snarling tiger tattoos falling from his bicep down to his forearm.
“I don’t know whose side to pick, though.” His gaze roams from me to Scar in that inquisitive way he measures his opponents with before an underground boxing match. “Scar is too tiny.”
“Shut up, arsehole.” She throws him a glare.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, psycho doll. I’m just stating facts” He directs his gaze to me. “And Mist is… well, an old hag. Age matters in stamina and fitness.”
I eyeball him in a helpless try to burn him on the spot. “Shut it, filth.”
He always makes me feel old when I’m sure he’s older. I’m probably thirty-one or thirty-two. I can’t tell for sure because our memories were wiped clean when