Monster in His Eyes
Page 98

Not bleeding.
He slowly pulls his hand away, his hold on me loosening. I don't move. I don't so much as breathe too loud. My Naz is long gone. The monster woke up from the drug-fueled nap.
"You're going to get up, and as quiet as possible, you're going to follow me outside," he says, matter of fact. "As long as your mother stays asleep, I'll leave her alone, but if she wakes up..."
He doesn't finish that thought. He doesn't have to.
Her blood will be the next spilled.
I can't let that happen.
He lets go of me when he decides I get the point. I'm surprised my legs work when I climb to my feet. My body shakes as I fumble around in the dark, trying to grab my things, all knobby-kneed and tongue-tied.
I'm fucking terrified.
He loves you, I silently tell myself, trying to stay calm. He won't hurt you. He promised.
The voice is confident, but my common sense screams louder. People fall out of love. Not everyone keeps their promises.
I slip on my shoes and grab my purse. I'm still wearing what I had on when I left him twenty-four hours ago. One whole day, that was all I had, all it took for him to come for me.
I'll always show up.
When I turn to him, I see he's watching me warily. Any amount of trust I earned by loving him withered away as he slept last night. There's hell to pay, all right, and I'm the one he's going to bill for it. His eyes are full of suspicion. He's a commander, and he believes I've defected.
What's the punishment for a traitor these days?
"Go," he says, motioning toward the door. "Tiptoe."
I tread lightly, holding my breath as I head for the stairs. As soon as I reach them, another door on the floor creaks, opening a bit. I spin that way, terrified, and see Killer's head peek out from the other bedroom. He sees Naz before he sees me and starts to growl.
"Killer," I whisper frantically, calling for him, my heart racing. "It's okay, boy."
The dog looks my way, silencing. His gaze bounces between Naz and me, the usually passive Killer on alert, like he can sense something's wrong.
"Karissa, is that you?"
I almost cry out at the sound of my mother's voice calling from the bedroom. I turn to Naz, wide-eyed, trying to keep my voice steady as I say, "It's fine, Mom. Got some water. Go back to sleep."
I stare at Naz, my eyes pleading with him, as Killer heads back into the room, deciding there's no threat.
"Goodnight, sweetie," she says back. "Sweet dreams."
"You, too, Mom."
I wait for Naz to make a move as his head turns toward the dark doorway. After a moment, he turns back to me, motioning toward the stairs. Relief almost cripples me when I turn back around and walk again.
She's okay.
My mother's still okay.
It's dark down here, just as black as it is upstairs. I blink, still trying to adjust to it, my eyes drawn to the living room when I reach the first floor. All at once the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as I nearly crumble.
There's blood everywhere. I can hardly make it out in the darkness, a lake of oozing black on the floor, a body floating in the center of it, something sticking straight out of his chest. A knife.
John.
Dead.
I cry out before I can stop myself. Naz's arms encircle me from behind, his hand reaching up, his palm pressing into my neck as strong fingers grasp my chin, forcing me to look away from the mess. His breath fans against me as he whispers, "Don't."
Don't look.
Don't think.
Don't breathe.
Don't.
I chant it in my head, tears streaking my cheeks as he leads me right out the front door. His car is parked nearby. We don't pass another living soul, and I'm grateful for it.
Something tells me a witness tonight won't live to see tomorrow.
I cry to myself the whole way to Brooklyn, my body shaking and teeth chattering. I clench my jaw to keep from making any noise. Bile burns my chest, my throat, scorching my insides, sending me up in flames. I nearly lose it a few times in the car, and Naz says nothing, his gloved hand reaching over and grasping the back of my neck. His touch is firm as his fingers knead the muscles. It eases my headache and calms the fire raging inside of me, but I only cry harder.
Why does his touch affect me this way?
Those vengeful hands killed a man tonight, they took the life of another, and yet they soothe me like nothing ever has before.
I hate myself for it.
When we get to the house, he presses a button on the visor, the garage door opening. He pulls the car in before closing the door again, cutting the engine. He sits there, staring straight out the windshield, his voice detached. "I should kill you."
Despite my attempt to stay silent, I whimper at those words.
"I should wrap my hands around your neck and steal your last breath," he says. "Bleed you dry, drain you of every last drop of that filthy Rita blood. You drugged me… betrayed me… so you could run off, put yourself at risk. You lied to me, when I've done nothing… nothing… to hurt you!"
His voice raises, anger seeping into the words.
"I should kill you," he says again, opening his door. "I fucking wish I had it in me to do it."
He steps out, slamming the car door behind him, and heads straight inside without waiting for me. I break down as soon as he's gone, sobbing loud and hard, gasping as I try to catch my breath. It rushes out of me, purging like a flood, as the tears fall and my chest caves in until there's nothing left inside of me.