Page 107 of Dishonored

“This is my home,” Martina snapped. “You would do well to remember that, you little whore.”

Ouch.

Martina’s outburst came so fast and hateful that Aria could only blink. She suspected it was because of the drink in the woman’s hand, and probably the many other drinks she had already had that morning.

Hadn’t Caesar said there was already one constantly drunk woman in this house?

Aria suspected she was looking at said woman.

“Point is,” Aria murmured, “if your husband told you I am dangerous, you would be wise to heed that warning, Mrs. Accardo.”

She sipped on her tea again.

Matrina didn’t move.

She was dumb, then. Didn’t realize the hell Aria could do to her before she even got the chance to shout for help. She probably snuck up there, and no one was around to hear her. It would be easy.

Aria needed to get out of this house alive, though. She didn’t think killing this dumb bitch would do that for her.

Shame, really.

“I just had to see for myself,” Martina said, finishing off her wine as she turned for the door again, “and I can’t say it was worth it.”

Again with the nasty comments.

Was that really necessary?

Aria didn’t think so.

“Don’t come into my wing again,” Aria told the woman, “because next time, you won’t leave. At least, not looking like you did when you first came in.”

Martina glared over her shoulder. “Oh, I won’t be back in here, but I’m sure we’ll see more of each other. Unfortunately. Caesar always gets what he wants in that way.”

No, Aria definitely heard it that time. It couldn’t be missed. The woman was green with it. Her voice was thick with it. Martina was jealous all over. Jealous over her step-son, and a woman.

It left Aria cold all over.

It left her heart heavy.

Her stomach rolled.

Because why?

Aria didn’t think she would like the answer to that question. And she suspected … Caesar might have already told her exactly why, but she hadn’t listened—people often didn’t when it came to a victim, even if it wasn’t intentional.

Or they didn’t want to hear.

“What, you won’t let me play with your little thing?” Martina asked her step-son.

Aria, hidden by the shadow that the kitchen entryway provided between the room and the hallway, watched the confusing scene happening down the way about twenty feet. Neither of the two noticed Aria standing there, and she wasn’t moving an inch.

She couldn’t.

The woman was too close to Caesar.

Her gaze was too hazy.

Too drunk.