Love And Carnage

Chapter 3 @The Killer

Women clutched their partners' arms like desperate ornaments, and the endless clatter of heels against marble filled the air.

I rolled my eyes, sighing heavily as I entered the ballroom, feeling nothing but irritation creep into my chest.

I've seen grander ballrooms, more decadent than this pitiful attempt. Whoever they hired as the architect must've been blind.

I snatched a glass of bourbon from a passing waitress, letting the burn seep into my chest as I surveyed the room.

But something about the air felt... off tonight. I ignored it, chalking it up to the nerves that always prickled before a kill.

My gaze drifted, scanning for my target while I moved in my ocean-blue dress clung to my curves, slit high along my thigh—just enough to blend in with a crowd of women wearing even more revealing dresses.

It seems the richer they are, the less fabric they wear. I guess that's what passes for class these days.

Being dolled up like this makes my skin crawl.

The dress clings to me like it's some second skin, but I'd rather be in jeans and my hoodie, down in my basement, cleaning my guns. At least those don't come with the smell of desperation and overpriced perfume.

A woman's giggle echoed through the ballroom, grating on my nerves. My jaw clenched as my eyes locked on the person I was here to kill.

There she is—THE bitch. I don't usually accept jobs from men wanting to kill their wives, but this one?

She's different. She needs to die.

I slipped between the clusters of guests, my gaze never leaving her for a second. Every step she took closer, every laugh she let out—I felt my pulse race with anticipation.

Her blissful ignorance, the way she carried on enjoying herself tonight, made me sick.

My eyes locked on her expensive black dress, the kind she probably dropped thousands on—money that wasn't even hers. I stood there watching her for what felt like hours.

It took everything in me not to lean into the voices in my mind, to storm right through her and make her beg me to end her life, sending her to the afterlife so all her victims could finally take their revenge.

I'm not a religious person; I don't have that privilege. But she sure as hell is, visiting church every Sunday like a saint in the public eye. Behind closed doors, though?

She's as evil as I am. At least I don't need to light a candle to keep my hands warm; I do fine with a bit of bloodshed.

A person like her shouldn't live; a woman in her position should be protecting others.

But no, even as the Minister of Foreign Affairs, she abuses her power to gain more wealth, selling women and children to fund her lavish lifestyle.

In my clutch, my fingers curled around the cold metal of the "perfume" Elizabeth had slipped me. Supposedly undetectable, safe through security. 'This is my new experiment,' she'd said, but if it didn't work, I'd end this bitch with my bare hands if I had to.

Just the thought of it made me giddy. Watching the life drain from her, seeing her terrified, realising that she wouldn't make it out of here alive... this was what I lived for.

Killing wasn't a burden; it was my release. It's not about justice; it's about the satisfaction that surges through me when I snuff out someone's pathetic existence.

But my need to kill this bitch is different. She hurts the innocent—children and women. Even I draw the line somewhere.

Fuck it.