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How is it possible to want to kill a person, and feel the urge to protect them at the same time?
Before my life with Rocco, wondering about a partner usually consisted of questions such as, would we like the same things? What if our tastes in music differ too much? I’m an early riser, so what if he prefers sleeping in? That kind of nonsense. It didn’t feel like nonsense then. Now? Now the first thing I think about is, will he hit me, too?
I look through the scope and aim at the bastard’s head. So easy. It would be so fucking easy to end his life here and now. I imagine the bullet passing through his temple and dwell on the idea of his brain matter exploding through the other side, but then, I shift my aim lower until I’m zeroed in on the middle of his right hand. The hand that’s responsible for the bruises on Ravenna’s neck. And I squeeze the trigger.
Without moving his fingers from my face, he bends until his mouth is just next to my ear. “If your husband still has his hand when he comes home,” he says in a deep, controlled voice, and a shudder ripples down my spine, “I’ll correct it immediately.”
I should have killed her the minute I set foot in this house. I haven’t. And now, I’m no longer capable of doing it.
I hate her. Hate her. Yet still, I can’t make my hand move from behind her head, can’t risk her getting hurt in the slightest, as we burn in madness.
When did protecting her become more important than killing her to carry out my plan? Saving one woman means I’m betraying another, betraying the promise I’ve made at her grave. But taking Ravenna’s life? I may as well put my own gun to my head.
