Page 111 of How to Kill Your Rival

‘You could have told me,’ he says.

‘And miss that face when hell broke loose?’ I say. ‘I think not.’

‘You were glorious,’ he says, those grey eyes glittering.

‘Strap on in, James. We’re in for a hell of a ride.’

I lean across and grab him by the scruff of the neck, pulling his lips to mine. Kissing him open and hard in front of everyone.

Claiming him as mine.

From now on, there will be no more hiding. No more letting people think they can undermine me. And certainly no more mercy.

The Hamiltons will hold the Death Council with a tighter grip than ever, and anyone who can’t deal with me heading it up will pay.

And with James by my side, we’ll be unstoppable.

EPILOGUE

ELIZA

Two Years Later

One of the first rules I’ve put in place at the helm of the Death Council is a mandatory three-week summer break from contracts for all families. They can do their own non-contract-based family business if they want to, but killing for money is strictly forbidden.

No one needs to die that badly that we can’t take a wee block break.

And for once, this fine day in the Highlands is gloriously sunny, the surrounding trees and hills the most luscious green. At the foot of the estate, the loch reflects the landscape like a mirror.

There’s a hubbub on the rear terrace, and the noise fills my heart with pure joy. It’s corny, sure, but I adore when my whole family is together. I’ve spent so many years focusing on earning a reputation that I’ve never just allowed myself to enjoy life.

But James has changed that. While we still compete to best each other, he’s also made me slow down outside of the business to enjoy things outside of work.

Like more pub nights.

And afternoon walks.

And restaurants and shows when we’re in London.

And lots, and lots, of filthy sex.

If anything, the breaks from constant focus have only improved my kill ability.

I carry a bowl of potato salad out to the terrace, delighting in the burst of colour from the blossoms in full bloom around the edge of the patioed area.

Fraser is attempting to light the barbecue, turning the gas on and striking matches before tossing them willy-nilly at it. You can tell that we haven’t historically done the cooking ourselves, but today is a day off for everyone. Maggie sits on the garden wall with Roman, her feet dangling as she flirts with him, all googly-eyed. Even two years and a bit on from their wedding, they are still smitten. Gaston, the frankenmutt, is worrying a stuffed rabbit that looks even more decrepit than he, rolling in the muddy flowerbeds. Dad is on the ornate garden bench with his arm slung around Priscilla’s shoulders. He’s finally filling back out after his all-clear last year, and he’s never been happier. Half of the year, he and Priscilla take off on adventures, determined to see more of the world after nearly losing the chance to. Finally spending some of the wealth he’s built up over his long career at the helm of the Death Council.

Priscilla tips her head up, the wide-brimmed sunhat moving to reveal her pink cheeks as she smiles.

Mrs Cairns is meant to be in the chair nearby where I left her. But it’s nothing but empty space.

Placing the potato salad on the table, already heaving with food, I hurry over to where Mrs Cairns is and take the butter knife from her hands.

‘Mrs Cairns. Helena, sit your arse right back down,’ I say.

‘I’m just buttering the buns…’ She waves a butter-covered knife my way.

‘That’s what she said,’ Fraser mutters before swigging his beer.