Page 58 of Hate to Love You

While I have no qualms about the work I do, and harbor no guilt about the justice I serve to the wicked men of New York City, I know the rest of the world wouldn’t see it that way.

Particularly the police.

For me, having my control taken from me, and being locked in a cell, would be a fate worse than death.

I swore after Garrett died, that the only way I’d allow my power to be taken from me, would be over my dead body. And I intend on keeping that promise.

So, should I ever be discovered, I would simply accept my fate, open the capsule and swallow it down, ending things on my own terms, rather than be hauled away and locked up in a cage. Again.

Besides, orange isn’t really my color.

Sometimes people ask me about the necklace, which hangs around my neck on a delicate gold chain. When they do, I put on the best sad eyes I can manage and tell them I always carry a part of my husband around with me.

Obviously, this is a blatant lie. But it has its benefits.

One, the sad widow routine seems to garner a lot of sympathy. And two, it’s really good at killing a conversation.

But today, in my frazzled state, I’m reminded of the power I hold, right there between my fingertips.

The power of life and death.

I mean technically I could just waltz into the nearest coffee shop and drop this lethal dose into someone’s coffee… anyone’s really, it doesn’t matter.

No. I don’t just kill people without reason.

And being frustrated and angry at a man for being beautiful and dangerous, is no reason to kill someone else.

The unfamiliar morality battle suddenly warring in my heart, has it pounding inside my chest as I storm down the street, now has me ignoring anyone who passes me.

Which is probably safer, as these innocent pedestrians have no idea how dangerous I am right now.

I feel like Roman Antonov has pulled the pin of my grenade, and I’m about to explode and take out anyone in the immediate vicinity.

I need to get home. The sooner the better.

With every step, I try to calm my racing heart, focusing on breathing deeply, and ignoring my chaotic intrusive thoughts.

I’ll go home and cuddle Lily, and everything will be fine.

But I know it’s not true.

Something changed during that interview with Roman Antonov. Something massive.

The only problem is…I have no idea what it was.

As I start down the next block, I briefly make eye contact with the owner of the newspaper stand and shoot him a smile.

“Hiya, Carl,” I say politely.

“Morning, Abigail,” he calls as I stroll past.

But as I do, I just so happen to catch the headline of a newspaper that an elderly man is reading nearby on a bench.

“Business Mogul Dead at 42.”

Oh shit! How did I miss that?!

Turning on my heel, I run back over to Carl, yanking a paper from the top of the stack. I drop my change in his cup and mutter my thanks before walking away, tucking it under my arm.