The car ride is a blur of neon lights and silence. I stare at my hands. They’re sticky. Red. The blood has dried into the creases of my palms, a second skin that feels tight and foreign. I killed a man. I plunged a jagged piece of glass into his neck and watched the light leave his eyes.
I should be screaming. I should be vomiting.
But I feel... quiet.
The SUV screeches to a halt at the mansion. Stavros is out before the engine cuts. He yanks my door open and pulls me out. He doesn't carry me this time. He grips my arm, dragging me up the stairs, his fingers digging into my flesh. He’s moving with a frantic, terrifying energy.
"Stavros," I whisper, stumbling on the marble. "You're hurting me."
"Good," he growls, not looking back. "Feel it."
We burst into the master bedroom. He kicks
