Page 22 of Slaying for Sloan
“Alex,” I finish for him, my voice mocking the reverence he’s clearly trying to show. “That’s right. The golden boy, the good son, the saint of Holly Grove.” I laugh. It’s not a joyful sound. “Bet you didn’t know I had it in me, huh?”
He looks as if he’s about to argue, but the crack in his voice gives him away.
“It can’t be,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it anymore. He’s grasping at straws.
“Oh, no. It’s true,” I say, my voice laced with venom. “I, Alex fucking Adams killed Marcus. I snapped. Poor fucking me, finally breaking under all the pressure and weight of always being so goddamn perfect.”
He shakes his head, like he’s trying to make sense of everything I’m saying. It’s almost pathetic. He takes another step back, stumbling.
“No, no, this—this doesn’t make sense. Alex wouldn’t do this. He’s... He’s not likeyou.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s sharp, loud, and echoes off the trees. I step forward, closing the gap. My breath mixes with the cold night air, a cloud of steam coming from my mouth as I lean in close, just inches from his ear.
“That’s the best part, isn’t it?” I whisper, the words cutting through the space between us like a knife. “Nobody would ever think it was me.” I lean in closer. “Except it was.”
His mouth opens, and a choked gasp escapes him, but no words follow. The silence is deafening.
“You’re fucking lying,” he says again, but the panic in his voice gives him away. He knows the truth now, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.
I snap. I can feel it building inside of me, the anger, the thrill of the chase, the power. I let him lunge at me, but I’m ready for it. I let him land one solid punch, the pain blooming across my cheek in a way that only makes me smile wider. I lick the blood from my lip, savoring the taste of it.
“Nice,” I say, cracking my neck, my hands loosening and tightening with anticipation. “My turn.”
I drive my fist into his gut, hard and fast. The air leaves his lungs in a violent gasp, his body jerking from the impact. He stumbles backward but doesn’t fall. I don’t let him. I grab the collar of his jacket, yanking him close, my nose brushing against his ear.
“For thine is the kingdom,” I whisper, a mockery of reverence. The words spill from me like a fucking chant.
I slam my forehead into his face. The sound of crunching cartilage fills the air, and he screams. Blood pours down his face like a waterfall, hot and sticky.
“Forever and ever, amen,” I whisper, pulling the knife from my belt. I don’t need to look at it. The feel of the cold steel in my hand is enough.
The fight is over. He’s over.
I straddle him, pinning him down to the snowy ground with one knee, pressing my weight onto his chest. He thrashes beneath me, hands grasping at my arm, but he’s weak, his movements slow and desperate.
The knife rises and then falls.
With each strike, the blade sinks deeper and quicker. His screams dissolve into wet gurgles as blood pours from his wounds, coating the snow around us. My movements are precise, measured, each cut satisfying in its brutality.
Fuck, this feels good.
When I finally stop, my arms ache, my chest is heaving, and the snow around us is painted a deep crimson color. He twitches once, his body spasming, and then goes still. I sit back, panting, as I let the weight of what just happened settle over me. The cold air feels sharp in my lungs, but it doesn’t touch the fire burning in my chest.
I glance down at his face. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s betrayal. There’s no mistaking it. He thought he stood a chance. Thought he could stop me from ending his pathetic life.
Pathetic.
I grin as a sudden rustling draws my attention, the sound sharp in the still night. My head snaps toward it, and I spot a squirrel darting up the trunk of a tree, its tail flicking nervously. Curious, I approach the base of the tree and pause, my gaze falling on something unexpected—a saw, propped haphazardly against the trunk.
The teeth of the blade gleam faintly in the moonlight, the edges worn but sharp enough to do the job. No doubt, it was left behind by one of the families who came here today, eager to chop down their perfect Christmas tree.
Hell yes.
A slow, deliberate smile stretches across my face as an idea takes root. This is too perfect. The kind of opportunity you can’t plan for but that makes the whole thing sweeter. I wrap my hand around the saw’s handle, the rough wood cool beneath my palm, and lift it.
The thought of what’s to come sets my pulse racing. The art of this isn’t just in the blood—it’s in the precision, the creativity. And now, I have the perfect tool to elevate the moment.
I start sawing through his wrist, each pass of the blade slicing through flesh and tendon with a satisfying crunch. The wetness of his blood, thick and warm, coats my hands as I work. His body twitches again, the last remnants of life flickering out of him, but this fucker is far beyond saving now. No amount of pleading or remorse can bring him back from the edge he’s pushed himself to.