This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,28

would I do it?

In the foyer?

There’s nothing the blood could ruin there. Surely, Edison could clean it all up.

And if he missed a spot?

Would that splatter of my blood grow and fester into something deadly?

Would my father become infected when he came to go through my things?

The very image of my father and his assistants rifling through my belongings has me pulling the brakes on the entire self-harming plan. They’d move my files. They would stain my carpet. Those motherfuckers would use my toilet.

I’m nearly in a rage when the young woman climbs into the car. Her presence drags me from my mental anguish, and I can’t help but gape at her.

“Meet your new master,” the man says to her.

She jerks her head and pleads with her eyes to him. Despite his satisfied smile, I don’t miss the regret in his eyes. He devours her with his stare for a brief moment before composing his facial expression. But it was there, hiding just beneath the surface. This man loves her.

Incredibly so.

Obsessively so.

I should know.

But he’ll never touch her again. Once I have her the way I want, she’ll never leave.

Edison closes the car door and I turn to regard the little thing I bought. Her wide blue eyes meet mine bravely—almost curiously—and I watch her.

“Seatbelt, please,” I instruct in a low, gravelly voice as soon as the car starts to move.

Her eyebrows furrow together in confusion but she dutifully obeys. Then, she folds her hands together in her lap. I like that she isn’t touching everything—especially me. That her eyes are remaining on mine. For a brief second, I wish to see her mouth, the same mouth that sold me from the video surveillance.

But what if she’s had that mouth on that man?

What if she ate something uncooked and her mouth crawls with something that could make me sick?

That mouth will have to wait.

“What’s your name?”

Her nose turns pink and she sniffles. “Baylee.”

I watch her blink one, two, three, four, five, six times in a row before I speak again. Her breaths are even and measured. I like the musical quality they make.

“I like that name.”

Her body relaxes at my words and my chest tightens. I like that too.

“Thank you, Mr. McPherson.” Her voice wobbles in fear and I straighten my back to appear more menacing. I need to establish that I’m in charge here.

“Call me War.”

She nods. “War, are you going to hurt me?” she asks, getting right to the point. Brave one she is—I admire that already about her.

Her ice-blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears but she lifts her chin to show strength. It mesmerizes me. I study her disheveled hair and the gardenia that hangs from it with a disgusted flare of my nostrils. My hands begin to shake. That man should have brushed her hair. He should have pulled all the hairs into a neat bun so that it wasn’t wild and unruly. I’ve read about how the human head sheds about thirty to fifty strands a day—even up to a hundred on rare occasion. A woman with unkempt hair like she has is probably shedding all over this vehicle. I make a note to have Edison vacuum as soon as we arrive home.

How many hairs would she lose between now and the drive to my beachfront estate?

I start calculating her hair loss. If she loses an average of forty hairs per day, then that means she will lose one point six seven hairs per hour. The drive is just over an hour which means she could potentially lose two point oh nine hairs. But, if she loses more along the higher end of that spectrum of fifty hairs a day, that would mean she’d lose—

“War?”

My calculations fizzle into the air and I blink at her. “What?”

“Are you going to hurt me?” Her hands tremble but when my gaze falls to them, she forces them to stop.

I frown. “I hope not.”

A healthy mix of fear and hope flashes in her eyes and my stomach flops. I feel pity for the poor woman. Here she is thinking she scored some gentleman who saved her from an evil, dirty world. She probably thinks I can save her from it—prays for that very concept.

Problem is, I can’t even save myself.

Every day, it maddens me. To the point of contemplating taking my own life.

The germs are everywhere. The chance of things going wrong poke at me every second of every day. Images of endless possibilities of my death, torturous thoughts