Until the end.
I gasp, my eyes flying open.
Gaderel gives me a soft smile. “You understand.”
“I…” Talking is difficult, so I nod. “Yes.”
Before either of us can utter another word, we hear it at the same time, from the elevator that is rising to the penthouse level. Voices.
Scarface’s voice.
I move smoothly to the elevator doors and sink into a low crouch, almost lying on the floor. The muscles in my legs coil tight like a cat preparing to spring. Gaderel kills the lights, as they were off when we got here, and takes place in the shadows.
But I don’t need light to see. Not anymore.
There’s a second voice—female. He’s bringing a guest home, and by the sounds of the murmurs and giggles, it seems she’s come willingly.
I meet Gaderel’s eyes across the darkness. We didn’t plan out the attack here, exactly. My mate is content to let me take the lead, do whatever I feel needs to be done. He trusts me, trusts my leadership and instincts, just as I trust him likewise, fully and unquestionably.
He nods to me.
I draw a dagger from the sheath at my back and flip it around in my fist, so that the blade points up.
When the elevator doors slide apart, Scarface and his friend stumble out of it, giggling like drunkards as they stumble into each other, their movements more side to side than forward.
“Where’s the light?” slurs the woman as she teeters in her high heels. She loses her balance and falls into Scarface, who dances a few steps to the side to avoid toppling over.
Right in front of me.
I bare my teeth. With a powerful lightning-fast slash, I slice open both of his Achilles’ tendons.
His howl of pain could shatter glass. The woman screams reflexively, and the lights suddenly flick on.
I straighten to my full height, gazing down at Scarface sprawled on the floor, clutching at his legs and ankles. Blood splatters all over the glossy marble floor with no sign of slowing down.
I glance at the woman. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, and wears a red slip dress with a fur stole. Her dark golden hair is mussed, and red lipstick is smeared across her lips. Scarface, by contrast, has no lipstick on his face, so I can only guess where her mouth was.
She stares at me, her mouth hanging open and blue eyes round with terror.
“Fuck,” Scarface screams. “Call for help, you stupid whore, don’t just stand there!” He keeps trying, and failing, to stand. The slippery blood makes it difficult. His severed Achilles’ tendons make it impossible.
I step closer to the woman, and she scuttles backward. Unfortunately, she’s too drunk and wearing shoes that are too unstable for that quick movement, so she topples right over and falls on her ass. I can hear her breath whooshing out of her lungs with the impact, but she never takes her eyes off me.
I place my hands on my knees and lean over so that our faces are a few inches apart. “This doesn’t concern you.”
She nods then shakes her head rapidly, as if unsure whether I’m asking or telling and wants to be certain she covers all her bases. Yes, I agree, this doesn’t concern me and no, you’re correct, this does not concern me.
“In fifteen minutes, I want you to call the police,” I continue, my voice low and calm.
She nods again. “C-call for help, okay, yes.”
“No.” I hold up a finger. “Not help. You’re going to report a murder. Stay anonymous.”
“Fuck you,” screams Scarface.
I don’t spare him a glance. I show his date my real eyes, and she gasps in horror. “Me and him have unfinished business. I don’t want to hurt you. So I need you to do exactly what I’m telling you. Do you follow?”
“Y-yes.”