Is there murder in the air or just what is going on? Read this week’s episode of the short romance series. For the previous episode, check here.
Sophie The arrows miss. Barely. They pass by the forearm covering my head, close enough for me to feel their heat. I hear a dull ‘chtonk’ as they hit a tree or fence.
He glares at me glassy-eyed, rocking like a defiant boxer waiting for the finishing blow, before dropping to his knees.
I approach him cautiously. Alexander is different from my usual Dates; this stunt with the crossbow is not something I’ve ever come across. I’m a little shaken, I won’t lie, but the show must go on. I check his pulse. I feverishly unroll my bag, then I take off the stupid red bolero – not really my style anyway – and twist it into a rope so I can bind his hands. It probably won’t keep him restrained for long but the extra seconds he’ll take to free his hands if he comes to will come in handy.
I hike up my dress and straddle him. My hands roam across his torso, looking for the fastenings of his jacket. It’s very well made and the zip is well hidden, but I find it.
I can wait no longer. The desire is like a roaring animal in my head. I slash at his shirt with my scalpel and curse. The idiot doesn’t look like he can grow a beard and yet his chest is covered in coarse black hair. I utter a stream of increasingly complex and creative curses under my breath.
I grind my teeth and reach for the Bic razor I stash for these moments.
With the SexSpace Dates, I usually request they come completely shaven, their lustful natures and the possibility of an easy lay guaranteeing their obedience.
This was a proper Date though, and I did play the demure, been-kissed-once-in-my-life wallflower to perfection, so hairy chest it was.
I remove the Bic from its plastic packet and shave a nice square window in his chest. He would be pissed if he could see himself but it’s funny to me and I can’t stop giggling.
I make an incision with the scalpel. The blade is razor sharp and cuts through his flesh like it is wet newsprint.
I hear a thud and feel a flash of pain at the base of my skull, taste the copper from biting my tongue, and then it goes quiet…
….what happened? There is a weight on my chest pinning me to the ground. I panic when I realise I can’t breathe. My body won’t work. My legs kick feebly. The weight is not on them but they are tangled in my dress. This would not be happening if I’d worn a pantsuit.
I force my eyes open. The butler leers at me. He looks almost peaceful, like the sound of me dying is a beautiful symphony. Spots form at the periphery of my vision, slowly expanding. I look away, not wanting his malevolent horse face to be the last thing I see should I succumb. I don’t know how long I’ve been out but I assume I don’t have much time left.
The buzzing in my ears gets louder, then slowly starts to fade, as if my brain just figured out the volume controls on a remote. The spots are large blotches now, I feel euphoric and peaceful at the same time.
As my vision fades to black, I glimpse my open roll bag lying within reach. I reach my hand towards it. It’s now or never, I say to myself as my hand weakly closes on the syringe full of Pavulon. I don’t even have time to be triumphant – I grab the syringe and with my last bit of strength, stab him in the throat with it. My thumb depresses the plunger, hopefully flooding his bloodstream with sleepy goodness.
He gasps, the shock of my attack enough to get him to release his grip a little. Air flows through my bruised trachea. Even my gasping sounds funny. I look up at Mr Hound with hatred. He’s clawing at his throat, trying to remove the syringe and I’m able to shove him off.
He is soon limp. I show no mercy. With a couple of slashes of my scalpel, I sever his Achilles’ tendons in both ankles. ‘I am going to enjoy making your Valentine,’I whisper.
I lean against a tree. The wolf in me howls, wanting to be sated. I’m just so tired. My breathing is coming in little whoops. It doesn’t care, it mocks me and calls me weak and pathetic. I scream at it to shut up. Bad mistake, it only hurts my throat even more and causes me to double over with hacking coughs. I spit up a little blood.
I bite my lip. I will not cry here. I am beautiful, I am fierce. I shuffle over to Alexander. The blood from the incision has turned black on his chest hair window. I straddle him once again. He stirs and moans. I finish the incision to the bone, his milky ribs exposed.
I reach for my bone saw, ready to split his rib cage. In surgery we have all sorts of tools for this, but this will be ugly and quick. I use a small portable electrical saw of my own invention. It’s really ingenious if I do say so myself. If I wanted the publicity, I’d totally get a patent and try and sell it. I don’t want the publicity. I did this after I got tennis elbow sawing through one of my Valentines with my old saw.
I attach the blade to the motor, powered by two 9V batteries, and test it. It skitters to life, vibrating satisfyingly in my palm.
Alexander’s eyes snap open.
How is it all going to end? Find out in the final episode of our short romance series, Cupid + Valentine!
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