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The car door opens, and Jeremial appears. I’ve never seen him out of a black suit, blond curls framing his face. He offers his hand, assisting me onto the dirty streets. With a defeated sigh, I smooth out my black sheath dress and readjust my leather gloves up my elbows before taking my first step toward the building.
The guards spring up when they see me enter. I don’t bother announcing myself and they know better than to stop me. As I cut through the expansive lobby, with its imposing chandelierhanging above me and elaborate murals depicting the Vainglory family history, I pass a trickle of his most devoted followers exiting the building. My lip lifts in a disdainful snarl.
Peasants.
Thankfully, this must mean I've missed the last of their adoration.
And it means I know exactly where to find the vile creature.
If I hadthe patience for beauty, I’d describe the Vainglory bathhouse as breathtaking. Rows of Corinthian columns on either side disappear into the water, fresco paintings of intricate celestial depictions sprawl the entire ceiling. Three large chandeliers hang above the body of water, and hundreds of candles line the walls, bathing the room with warm light.
However, the decor is quickly forgotten when my eyes begrudgingly land on a naked lithe body amidst the steamy water. I sneer, my heartbeat rising.
Wolfgang.
Heir to Vainglory Media and its entire god-forsaken fortune.
He faces me, wet brown hair slicked back, tanned arms sprawled out beside him as he leans against the edge of the bath. Luckily, he hasn’t noticed me yet, eyes closed while his head falls backward between his shoulders. Approaching him, I remove my hat and set it down on one of the small tables that I pass, the soft classical music muffling the click of my steps.
When I’m at a close enough distance, I pull out the severed finger that I’ve carelessly shoved into my purse and whip it at his face, hitting him square between the eyes.
That certainly catches his attention.
I find a sliver of satisfaction at seeing that blood from the finger has left a smear on his forehead. He looks ridiculous as he sputters like a dying fish, his gray-blue eyes finally landing on me. His gaze turns cold, as a sneer similar to mine pulls at his lip, revealing a gold canine and incisor to the right of his mouth.
I don’t allow him the pleasure to speak first.
“One of your lackeys broke into the Grounds.”
Silence coils between us like a living, breathing thing.
“Is that an accusation, Crèvecoeur?” he finally drawls, his voice rough with ire.
I cross my arms. “It’s a fact.”
Breaking our stare, his eyes dip to the finger now bobbing in the water in front of him. He retrieves it with only his index and thumb as if genuinely repulsed. I puff out an annoyed breath. It’s not as if he hasn’t touched a dead appendage countless times before. Peering at his family sigil clearly carved on the signet ring, he shrugs and throws the finger over his shoulder. It lands with a thunk against the back wall.
His expression morphs into boredom, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he resumes his relaxed pose, still naked and unbothered, arms outstretched. “I can’t be held responsible for what my employees are caught doing on their own time.” He yawns.
I scoff at his response.
“Oh? And it wouldn’t have anything to do with what’s coming up next month?” My hands land firmly on my hips. “Is this your dimwitted attempt at keeping the peace?”
My anger spikes knowing we’ve been warned to stay civil in the months leading up to the Lottery. That imbecilic rule. I wish I could kill him instead.
His deep laugh is so condescending that my fingers twitch, itching to pull out my dagger and stab him in the eye with it.
“Please,” he says, his eyes lazily sliding to find mine. His grin turns sinister. “Why would I care about your silly little secrets,” he says while his eyelids flutter closed, head tilted back as if dismissing me.
The rage that engulfs me feels like tapping into an ancient bottomless well. I blindly let it dictate my actions like a puppet on strings. It only takes a split second for me to scan the room, noticing his robe draped over a chair nearby. I lurch for it, quickly wrenching the satin belt out of its loops and twisting it around my hands.
Right as he cracks an eye to see what I’m up to, I wrap the sash around his neck from behind, and jam one of my heels between his shoulder blades, pulling him backward. His choked gasp is almost as delicious as the sound of a dying breath. I’ve caught him by surprise, his legs thrashing in the water while his fingers claw at his throat, eyes widening in shock.
I smile down at him, tightening the belt. “I pray when death beckons you home, I am there to witness it,” I rasp tauntingly. He’s choking. It’s beautiful. “I will be the first to dance on your grave.”
Finally getting a finger between the sash and his neck, Wolfgang manages to push one croaked word out of his full lips.
“Mercy.”
