Flesh and Blood, Sian Rosé [most difficult books to read TXT] 📗

Of course, the police were looking for the doctor’s killer, but there was nothing to link the murder back to Steve or the girl.

Which meant that the girl hadn’t gone to the feds.

But why?

With an almighty roar, Steve banged his clenched fist down hard on the table. Maybe the confusion was bothering him more than the anxiety that any moment now, his door would be kicked down. He pictured police swarming the place. His empire wiped out in a matter of seconds.

At that moment, a loud, purposeful rap at the door resounded down the hallway and made his heart briefly stop. Steve’s pulse paused, then began thudding rapidly away inside his arteries. He swallowed and wondered if he had imagined it. He felt the flesh around his arse tighten and clench, a cold chill sliding down his spine as he pricked his ears.

Just a few seconds later, there it was again. Another hearty, almost melodic rap on the front door.

Steve got to his feet and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall in the corner.

5 minutes to 11.

Sucking in air, the wide-eyed man hastily snatched a knife up off of the kitchen counter and tightened his clammy grip on its hilt until his palm hurt.

As a kid, his father and older brothers had always mercilessly teased him for being a coward. Now it seemed like, even though the bastards were dead and gone, everything he did caused the echo of their cruel taunts to resound through his head. Normally, Steve spent his nights with a woman. If not a woman, a man. If not a man, a group of associates, or clients, or business partners. But on this one particular occasion, he was alone, apart from the livestock rattling about upstairs.

That’s how Steve knew he really wasn’t so big. Any idiot could play the fearless, menacing predator with a gang of others to back him up. But whenever Steve was alone, his skin broke out in cold gooseflesh, and the paranoia warped every living thought that passed through his brain. Every knock, even sudden noise, or imagined movement sent chills down his spine.

Swallowing, Steve held the knife out and attempted to ignore the way the metal trembled in his weak grip. He held his breath as he tread the familiar carpeted hallway down the heart of the house towards the front door.

What was he so afraid of?

The feds?

An older brother or a father come looking for revenge?

An entire inventory of teenagers rushed through his head. Usually lost, naïve, troubled souls who made the fatal error of travelling too far from home and burning all their bridges. The good ones would last a few years; the weaker would only be able to withstand a few months before they got themselves in trouble. Whatever. They all ended up the same way.

Dead.

A cold, leaking slab of meat left abandoned in some urban exile. Not that Steve knew much about that, he paid an expert to dispose of the corpses. All he had ever done was facilitate the business, make deals and most importantly… recruit.

Irritated by his own cowardice, once Steve reached the front door, he forced his face up to the peep hole and squinted a bloodshot eye through the tiny lens.

The tension in his chest instantly released.

He pulled open the front door, allowing a cold gust of wind to sting his face. It felt good, refreshing.

There was nobody on the doorstep. He was alone.

Steve laughed and shook his head, shoulders sagging as he relaxed.

Just the drugs playing tricks on his mind.

He sighed and shut the door, ready to retreat back into the kitchen and take another line. But before he even had the chance to take another breath, a sudden stab of pain plunged into the flesh on his upper back.

“FUCK!” he screeched, dropping the knife in his hand and falling forwards onto his knees.

Another thick, painful slice ripped through muscle, forcing his body to curl forwards into a stiff bend.

The cold edge of a blade appeared against his throat then, its glistening wet teeth teasing his quivering, clammy skin.

“Turn around,” a soft, young voice instructed.

Trembling, Steve obeyed, slowly forcing his limbs to cooperate. An involuntary squeak escaped his lips as his eyes met hers, and recognition suddenly dawned on him.

The girl. The little bitch who killed the doctor and ran off.

“You…” he gasped.

“That’s right,” she whispered, holding the knife tighter to his pathetic throat, her teeth grating down into a rage-fuelled grimace. “Remember me?”

Steve pressed his lips together. He could feel the teenager’s wrist shaking uncontrollably and the light weight of her body hovering just a few centimetres above him.  A nasty grin crept up onto his face as he reached up one hand and clamped it tightly over her bony wrist.

“Stupid slag,” he hissed with glee, “should’ve quite whilst you were ahead.” He lunged forward, instantly knocking her over, adrenaline numbing the pain of the shallow stab wounds that soaked crimson rapidly through his shirt.

Minnie felt the blade skitter out of her hand and clatter to the floor, somewhere where she couldn’t see because her entire vision was completely occupied by Steve’s ugly, snarling face. His foul-smelling breath caused her eyes to crinkle and water, and a white-hot sear of pain in her forehead told her that he was yanking her hair upwards.

“You’ve had me on right the run-around, little girl,” he sneered, straddling her midsection and pinning both of her wrists to the ground. “Think it’s about time you gave me something back in return…”

With surprising strength concealed in his deceivingly gangly arms, he wrenched her right hand backwards, causing an almighty crack. The pain was so great; it was like the girl’s soul had left her body. Winded by the intense rush of agony, she helplessly gulped in air, but before she could scream, another gnarly snap of tendons pierced the atmosphere.

Steve let go of her broken wrists and sat back to relish the shock that invaded her expression.

Just as the first