Die, My Love Read online

  “This is not how my future wife should behave.” He wrenches her head back so she has to look up at him. “I gave you that ring as a promise. I promised my love, and you promised your obedience. And you are already breaking your vow!”

  She screams as he pulls harder, bending her back at a painful angle.

  I snap out of it. She’s mine. Not his. And no one takes my toys away from me.

  Shoving the door open, I step into the room.

  He looks up, his eyes narrowing. “Lucy.”

  That’s a surprise. He knows me. Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s into watching.

  “Let her go.” I put my hands on my hips.

  He loosens his hold on her, and she crumples to the floor in a blubbering heap. “She’s mine.”

  The words are like acid on my ears, and a white-hot rage pulses through me. “Wrong, asshole. Greta belongs to me.” I advance on him, my eyes going to the rack of implements. I snatch a long cane from it and brandish it in front of me.

  He looks me up and down, his mouth twisting into a smirk. “The shoes are wrong. And your breasts don’t fill out the top. Not like hers do.”

  “Lucy, run. Get help.” Greta tries to crawl away.

  “I can handle the situation.” I don’t take my eyes from the man. “And you are?”

  “You can call me Dr. Chaucer.” He darts forward and grabs a whip from the rack. “You know, I planned on taking care of you tonight, so I should be thanking you for showing up here and making my job easier.”

  “Go ahead then.” I try to bend the cane between my hands. It has very little flex. Good. This will work perfectly on the good doctor. And what a stroke of luck to run into him tonight.

  “Thank you.” He gives a curt bow, then tests the whip with a vicious crack. “Now if you’ll come a little closer, I’ll make it quick.”

  “Oh?” I circle around toward Greta. The dumb bitch hasn’t gotten up to run yet.

  “I’ll use my hands.” He follows my movements. “Wrap them around your throat. Squeeze until you stop writhing. You won’t be the first insane woman I’ve killed. Not even the first of the day.”

  “Insane?” I cock my head to the side. “Excuse me?”

  He laughs. “Just look at you, Lucy. Obsessive. Delusions of grandeur. Compulsions galore.” He cracks the whip again. “I know all about you.”

  “I don’t think so.” I grin and reach down to pull Greta to her feet.

  “What have I missed?” He advances.

  I push Greta toward the door and put my back to her. “Run, Greta. I’ll catch up.”

  She stumbles into the hallway.

  “What have you missed? Plenty, Doc.” I lash out with the cane and catch him on the side of his neck.

  He roars and backs away. “What do you mean?”

  “That had to hurt, eh?”

  “Not as much as you’re about to hurt.” He rushes me, and the cane goes flying from my hand.

  I sidestep, but he gets me around the waist with one arm and drives me to the floor. The back of my head cracks on the wood, and my vision blacks for a moment.

  “You have ruined my perfect evening!” He climbs on top of me and clocks me hard on one cheek.

  I laugh and buck up, throwing him sideways. I flip over and straddle him, then rain down punishment on his handsome face. Each hit fuels me, giving my rage a whole new life.

  “She’s mine. Mine.” I backhand him as he sputters, blood running from his spit lip.

  With a growl he shoves me off, and we grapple until he gets a lucky break and pins me face down.

  “You broke my nose, bitch.” His words are slightly slurred.

  “That’s not all I’m going to break.” I pull at his forearm as he tries to choke me out.

  He lands a hard punch to my side that sends my breath wheezing out. “I was just going to kill you. But now you’ve pissed me off, stupid girl. You’re going to get worse than a quick death.” He reaches down and yanks up my skirt.

  I struggle under his weight, but he manages to yank my panties down and jab his fingers between my legs.

  He stills. “What the—”

  I raise up with him on my back and drop, crushing him beneath me.

  “Joke’s on you, Doc.” I roll over and kick hard into his side. My heel connects, and one of his ribs cracks.

  He yells and curls into a ball. “A man. You’re a—” His painful wheeze cuts off the rest.

  “Lou.” I grab him by the foot and drag him toward the bed. “Name’s Lou. At least it was.” I let my voice drop, the sweet tone I’d modeled after Greta’s dying away into my baritone. “Until I met her.”

  “My angel.”

  I pick up the whip and use it to bind his hands. “Mine.” I correct him. “She’s mine. Not an angel, either. She torments me. And she’ll keep tormenting me until I become.”

  “You copy everything she does—”

  “No!” I kick him again, and this time his scream reaches some interesting pitches. “I don’t copy her. I’m more than she ever could be. I am becoming.”

  “Becoming what? You’re.” He wheezes. “Insane.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “Yes,” he grunts.

  I drag him to the handy cage, shove him inside, and click the lock in place. Then I back away and admire my handiwork. My face aches where he hit me, but I’m otherwise none the worse for wear.

  I drop down to my haunches in a decidedly unladylike fashion. “Next time you should research a little more thoroughly. Especially when you decide to take a toy from a former UFC fighter.”

  Recognition finally fires in his eyes. “Lou Dantonio?”

  My lips almost crack, I smile so big. “Remember me now?” I flex my fists. “I’m smaller now. Had some surgical changes to aid in my transformation. But I’m still the same bruiser you used to torture for fun when I was in the loony bin with you.”

  “I don’t care who you are. I’ll kill you for this. For taking her.” The anguish in his tone is almost touching. “Angel!” he yells. “Come back to me sweet angel!” Turning to me, he snarls, “I already took her cherry. It’ll never be yours.”

  “I never wanted it.” I shrug. All that means is that I’m free to start tapping ass whenever I feel like it. “Thank you.”

  “If not that, then what do you want?” He looks genuinely confused.

  “Her.”

  “Her what?” He shakes his head.

  “All of her. I want to take everything she is and suck the fucking life out of it. I want to own her soul.”

  “That’s—”

  “Insane, right?” I wink at him. “I’m becoming, Doc. I don’t expect you to understand. I’m already better, and when I take every last bit of her, I’ll be superior in every way. Her life will end in these hands, not yours.” I show him my palms.

  A creak in the hall catches my attention, and I stand. “Greta.” I adjust my pitch to a higher, softer note. Why the hell did she come back? She’s a coward. Always has been. Weak. That’s why I chose her.

  Turning, I gawk. She has a gun. Where the hell did she even find it?

  “Move aside, Lucy.” Her voice wobbles, but she holds the pistol steady and aims at the cage.

  “Are you going to—”

  “Move.” Still nude, she advances in the room.

  I back away and stand at her side.

  Dr. Chaucer sits up in the cage. “My angel. My perfect Valentine. Put the gun down. This isn’t you. You are everything soft and feminine and beautiful. This isn’t like you. You aren’t—”

  “You don’t fucking know me!” She screams, and the pistol roars. Blood spurts from the doctor’s chest, and his expression turns to utter shock as he stares down at the gushing crimson.

  “Angel.” He sputters. “My perfect angel. I love you. I love you so much.” Blood spills from his mouth as he begins to cough.

  “I’m not yours. I will never be yours.” She fires again, and he goes down, his ey
es open and staring as his life ends. Good. He got what he deserved for trying to steal from me.

  She lowers the gun and wipes her face with one hand.

  “Greta.” I reach for her. “Give me the gun.”

  She turns on me, the pistol up again. “You think I’m stupid?”

  “What?” My blood goes cold.

  “You think I don’t notice the way you copy everything about me?” She sniffles, but the gun doesn’t waver. “The contacts, the hair, the clothes, all the way down to my fucking nail colors and the same way I wrinkle my nose when I laugh!”

  I clear my throat. “I can explain all that—”

  “I know. I just heard your explanation. You want to hurt me. Maybe even worse than he did.” Her golden eyes harden, as if she’s turning from putty to stone right before my eyes. It’s a gut punch.

  “No.” I shake my head as a ringing starts in my head. “Don’t do that.”

  She laughs, but it’s a harsh sound, nothing like her usual musical tone. “Don’t shoot you?”

  “No, don’t become. Stop.” I put my hands to my ears and close my eyes. “I’m the one who is supposed to become, not you!” She’s changing right in front of me, her back straightening, her soul coalescing into something born of fire and steel. I can’t take it. Not now. All this work. All this effort. All for nothing.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Her finger still rests on the trigger. “I thought you were harmless. I thought it was flattering. But it was sick the whole time. You’re sick.”

  “Stop!” I scream as she changes, and Greta is gone. The Greta I could have used, the vessel, the one I would always be better than. All gone. Grief and hate mix inside me until they combust. I rush her, ready to destroy her rather than let her fully become.

  The pistol flash is the last thing I see.

  About Celia Aaron

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  * * *

  Celia Aaron is a recovering attorney who loves romance. Dark to light, angsty to funny, real to fantasy--if it's hot and strikes her fancy, she writes it. Thanks for reading.

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  The clatter of dishes, the overly-smiley waiters, and the pop of champagne bottles annoys me to no end. Don’t even get me started on the intermittent giggles of all the stupid, love-sick girls hanging on their date’s every word.

  Valentine’s Day is a crock of shit. A day where single people feel sorry for themselves and those of us in relationships hold ridiculously high expectations.

  Like me.

  I had expectations for fucking Bradley to do something amazing. Epic. Romantic. Not bring me to this four-and-a-half-star joke of a restaurant.

  I glance across the room at him. He shoots me an almost sexy smile, and there’s a moment where I envision myself taking his head and slamming it against the table until his ruby-red blood splatters the starched, white tablecloth.

  “Paige?”

  Gwen’s saccharin-sweet voice draws my attention away from Bradley.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “Nothing.” I snag my glass of wine, grinning around the rim. Gwen would never understand that the reason I asked her to dinner on this shitty day was because of Bradley, not because she caught her two-timing skeeze of a boyfriend balls deep—again—in one of his secretaries.

  My gaze strays back to Bradley, and my heart somersaults. Blond hair that’s always perfectly styled, chiseled jaw. The way his slacks hug his ass should be considered a cardinal sin, and when he smiles—I clutch at my chest, yes, be still my heart—because when that man smiles, it’s as though heaven has opened its gates and welcomed me into eternal salvation.

  “What did you think of that patient?” Gwen asks, twirling a piece of hair around her finger.

  “Which one?”

  Her jaw slacks. “Mr. Bumpus.” She said his name loud enough for the table beside us to hear. “You know he. . .” she rambles on and on about the poor man.

  With a sigh, I drum my fingers over the white tablecloth while the HIPAA violations mount against my dear friend with every breath she takes. One day, someone will report her. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Asylum takes patient privacy very seriously. As they should. How would society function if everyone’s secrets were out in the open? Just think how paranoid people would be if they knew their jolly FedEx guy likes to cut off the flesh from inside his thigh and eat it.

  Some things are better kept under wraps. People like me. Most certainly people like Bradley. Oh, Bradley. I try to focus on Gwen and the dull drone of her conversation, but my attention eventually drifts back to him. He’s the sun, and I’m but a feeble planet caught in his orbit. My jaw clenches. That’s not the way it should be. I should be the goddamn sun, and he should be the feeble speck of matter eternally bound to orbit in my glory. Bradley, I should punish you for making me feel so insignificant.

  “What are you looking at?” Gwen turns in her chair then shakes her head. “You’re off in La La Land tonight.”

  “I just thought I saw. . .” My words stick in my throat like molasses. And for a moment, I hope I choke on them and keel over right on this table because Bradley just stood and pulled out a chair for some skanky brunette. Oh, he gave her my smile when she swept her hair over her boney fucking shoulder. Red-hot anger batters my insides, my teeth grind together, but I somehow manage to keep it from bubbling over. Even though my pulse is throbbing in my neck and temples, I smile like the sweet person I am. “I thought I saw someone I knew. An old friend, but I don’t think it’s him.”

  “I hate when that happens. I’ll stare and stare, kinda like you were doing, to the point of being creepy.” Gwen rolls her hand in the air with a flourish before grabbing her wine glass and bringing it to her lips. “Nine times out of ten, if I say something to the person, it’s never them, and then I just feel like an idiot.” She giggles.

  I giggle because I’ve learned that’s the appropriate thing to do in situations such as these, situations where I do, in fact, think she’s an idiot, but it would be frowned upon to say so.

  The waiter steps to the table and places our meals in front of us. The aroma of roasted peppercorn and garlic lifts with the steam swirling from my filet. When I cut into the meat, blood seeps out and pools along the rim of the clean, white plate.

  Throughout dinner, Gwen rambles about her life problems, bitching and moaning. I simply chew and agree with everything she says while I watch Bradley and Little Miss Perky Tits.

  She flips her hair every few seconds. She laughs too much. And let’s face it, Bradley, she’s plain at best. All the other girls have been bombshells. Don’t sell yourself short, sweetheart.

  Gwen is in the middle of convincing herself she can do better than David, that she shouldn’t give him a second chance, and I’m nodding like one of those stupid Bobbleheads when Little Miss Plain Jane Perky Tits gets up from the table.

  I push up so fast my leg hits the table, rattling the dishes. Gwen’s brow wrinkles.

  “Where’s the restroom?” I know where the restroom is because Bradley’s whore is sauntering her way to it right now.

  Gwen thumbs over her shoulder, and I grab my purse before hustling through the maze of lover-filled tables.

  A warm buzz swims through my veins, nearly making me drunk as I think about how lucky I am that I’m a woman. Women get to take their purse everywhere without anyone questioning them. It makes life so much easier.

  The door to the bathroom swings closed just as I come to it. I take a breath and steel myself when I notice the yellow sign in front of the employee’s restroom. Restroom Close
d. Fate is a very real force that is often on my side. Snatching the pretty little sign, I shove open the door and grin when I place it in front of the women’s restroom.

  Only one stall is closed, so I secure the lock. It’s just me and Miss Tits. The trickle of piss echoes from the walls along with the click of my heels.

  I go about setting my purse above the sink. I hum while I rummage through the tubes of slut-red lipstick and brown pill bottles until my fingers brush the smooth, plastic syringe.

  The whoosh of the toilet sounds before the latch on the stall clicks, the hinges groan, and out she comes, hips just a swaying.

  Leaning over the sink, I slather sheer gloss to my lips. She primps her hair.

  A passing glance is exchanged, the kind that not only distracts her from the syringe concealed delicately in my clutched fist, but one that attempts to hide the fact that we’re sizing one another up. Who’s the prettiest, the slimmest? The most perfect for Bradley.

  “That dress is gorgeous. Where’d you get it?” I ask, ever sincere.

  It hangs off her lean frame like some cheap bargain basement curtain, but it would cling to my curves like a leather glove. Oh, I bet Bradley would salivate if he saw me strut out in that orchid-colored dress.

  “This old thing?” She bats her fake eyelashes while I fight not to roll my eyes into next week. How drab must she be if she’s actually using the: this old thing line. Bradley, I’m doing you a favor. I truly am. Consider me a martyr. “Van Maur,” she says.

  “It’s stunning.”

  She dabs at a stray line of lipstick, then straightens the pearl pendant on her necklace before turning on her heels.

  “Oh,” I say, stepping beside her. I force a sugary smile because girls with sweet smiles are trustworthy. “You have something on your neck here.”

  Just like that, she sweeps that damn hair to the side, offering me the perfect spot. My soul tingles at the sight of her throbbing pulse. With practiced ease, I stab the needle into her throat and press the plunger.