I had my hand out of my pocket and the piano wire around her throat before she had the chance to take a final breath.
She looked like a fish out of water, flailing against me as she struggled to breathe. I held the wire tight, no mercy, no feeling toward what I was doing. Her fingernails ripped her own fragile skin as she tried to loosen the wire.
Her legs gave out.
Her wild, horrified eyes went dead.
Her body fell limp.
I dropped her to the floor and put the wire back in my pocket. Then I crouched down beside her lifeless body. “London is mine and you fucked with that. Vault is going to pay for what it’s done.”Four Years, Seven Months AgoTHE BROOM HANDLE dug into my back and the scent of bleach burned my nostrils. I’d knocked over the disinfectant spray bottle when I’d heard the voices and the pungent liquid leaked from the nozzle onto the tiled floor.
The storage closet door in my father’s laboratory was ajar. I hadn’t turned on the light when I’d come to grab a roll of paper towels, so I was partially concealed in darkness. That was if I stayed out of the stranger’s direct line of sight. I prayed my drumming heartbeat or my ragged breathing suffocating behind my hands wouldn’t give me away as I watched him glide his finger over the shiny surface of his knife. And it was not a butter knife. It was a six-inch blade with a serrated edge and it completely contradicted his look of a businessman as he held it in his hand in front of him.
The stranger casually strode closer to the closet then stopped a foot away. As I inhaled, the scent of his expensive cologne filled my lungs and I gasped. Holy shit. The familiarity of it sent a wave of comforting heat through me. I knew that scent. I’d never forget it, but it was obvious this man was anything but comforting or safe.
He wore an immaculate black suit with a light blue, pin-striped dress shirt that had the top two buttons undone. No tie, and for some reason that seemed appropriate, as if a tie would be too constricting.
He looked in his early thirties and probably over six foot two. From the way he carried himself, there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t muscled, although it was more toned than bulky. Regardless of the threat he conveyed, he appeared completely relaxed, as if he were caressing a kitten and not a deadly weapon.
I waited for him to see me. Hear me. To turn and throw the knife and pierce my chest to silence my racing heart. But what I was more concerned about was my father who was in the room with this guy.
God, Dad, what’s happening? Who is he?
Ever since I could walk, I used to help my dad in the laboratory. Although, at that age, I wasn’t much help, but my dad never seemed to mind. I knew the periodic table before I knew my times tables and was conducting experiments all through high school instead of joining any team activities. Science was my passion and there was nothing that drove me more than to experiment with different compounds and research the effects.
When I hit college, my workload became too heavy and I spent less time at my dad’s laboratory and more time in the school’s lab with my head in my books.
But lately, I noticed my dad appeared off—agitated and tired. I decided to drop in at the lab after seeing him at dinner on Sunday. He’d been pale with dark circles under his eyes and he’d lost a lot of weight. When I’d asked if he was feeling okay, he said ‘of course,’ then got up from the table having barely touched anything on his plate.
“They were rather… displeased with your last email.” The stranger’s smoky voice triggered shivers to trail down my spine and my toes to curl in my running shoes. His tone was calm with a hint of a British accent, almost bored sounding. But underneath, it was threaded with danger. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted blood.
He tilted his head in my direction and I held my breath. I waited for him to kick the door the rest of the way open and drag me out. I prayed the shadows kept me hidden enough, but if he turned his head a little more….
He didn’t. Instead, he tipped his head down to peer at his knife, causing a few strands of his dark russet hair to fall forward and brush his defined cheekbones. There was no question he was attractive, but if there was ever a time to use the idiom ‘looks were deceiving,’ it was now.
“It’s delicate and the resources are difficult—” My father’s voice cut off when the man abruptly interrupted.