Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 167671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 838(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 838(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
“He’s fine,” I add. “Don’t worry.”
“Okay. If you say so,” he says.
Suddenly, the front door slams shut, and we both abruptly stop eating as two bloodied legs appear in view. Elliot’s sandwich drops onto his jeans as Silas walks in with his body caked in blood. He just walks past us without even looking and drops a bag on the floor near the stairs.
“Holy shit …” Elliot mutters.
I immediately put down my sushi and walk out to gape at him as he saunters up the stairs.
“What happened to him?” Elliot asks behind me. “Should we even ask?”
“I don’t know. Stay here. I’ll deal with it.”
He raises his hands. “Okay, sounds fine by me.”
Silas is already upstairs, so I follow his red footsteps and find him standing in front of his bed, dripping blood onto the small carpet. His hands are curled into fists, his eyes monstrously cold.
I swallow. “You okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you hurt?”
He shakes his head, the blood still rolling down the palm of his hands.
“You killed again, didn’t you?” I ask.
His eyes twitch as they connect with mine, a wicked smile appearing on his face. “I couldn’t help myself.”
I sigh out loud. “Go shower. I’ll clean the weapons and tell everyone to leave the premises so we can deal with this.” He begins unbuttoning his shirt, so I turn and leave, but I grab the door on my way out. “Did anyone see you?”
“No. I made sure of it.”
I doubt that, considering how he came in, but whatever. We’ll spin a good story for those who saw him.
“And the body?” I ask.
“Gone. Incinerated.” The smirk on his face widens. “Fucking ashes in the woods,” he replies, letting the shirt fall to the ground.
I shake my head. Even now, he can’t stop himself from killing literally anything and everything that walks. Something must’ve ticked him off, but he’ll never tell me what.
“Fine. Whatever. You do whatever you want as long as I don’t have to deal with your mess.”
“Ivy will be here soon,” he says as he walks to his own bathroom, leaving a bloodied trail. “She’ll clean my mess for me.”
Ivy
I’m standing in front of the Skull and Serpent Society house, wondering why I’m even back here again. Not that I have a choice in the matter. Silas made that much clear.
Well, at least this way I can pay off the debt without being killed in the process. And I wonder if he’s going to pay me again for the effort.
I blow out a breath and approach the door, but when I knock, it’s already open.
That’s odd.
I go inside and close it behind me.
“Hello?”
No one replies.
Has everyone left?
I softly tiptoe around, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone inside the building, not in the kitchen, the common room, or the hallways, so I head upstairs instead. The boards creak under my feet as I approach the only light coming from down the hallway … Silas’s room.
My heart beats in my throat as I push open his door.
No one is inside.
Where is he?
In the middle of the room sits a bucket filled with soap and that same damn brush again that still makes me heat when I look at it.
I walk inside and take a deep breath before I look around the room to see where the dirt is at that he wants me to clean up so badly. If this is even a cleaning job at all. Because as far as I’m concerned, he just wants to use me as a glorified whore.
But when I pick up the wet brush from the bucket and rise, my eyes fall upon a thick, red stain in the carpet near his bed. I get closer for a good look, bending over to touch it.
Blood.
The brush drops from my hand.
He didn’t hide the crime.
He wanted me to find it so I would see what he’s capable of. As a warning and a threat.
If I don’t do what he says and clean up after his mess … it’ll be me next.
I swallow and dip the brush into the bucket, rubbing it over the bloodied mark again and again. Sweat slowly builds up on my back as I get to work, rubbing the blood out of the carpet, adding more soap, and brushing it again. When it’s turned more pinkish than red, I lift the carpet and roll it over to get to work on the stain on the floor. But there’s a whole set of droplets—no a path—that leads all the way to the bathroom. Footsteps.
With my brush, I follow the path, cleaning up the footsteps until they’re erased from existence, and when I get to the bathroom, the door appears to be cracked open. My eyes find the small slit, and I can’t help but look inside. Steam has filled the room, and I can barely see anything, except the figure standing underneath the shower, his black tipped hair with white roots dropping rivulets of water … and blood.