Page 9 of Merciless King

My feet ached by the time I was done and had handed the arrangements off to be delivered. My Uber would thankfully be there in thirty minutes and I planned on a long hot shower and a movie. Preferably a comedy. Something cheesy with a big mushy happily ever after.

I topped up the water in some of the vases that looked a little low.

I was by the door when it started to open. “Sorry, we’re just closing,” I said, and reached for it. Someone pushed and it glanced my shoulder. A cry escaped as a guy stepped inside. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled low, and when he flicked it back I saw he was wearing a mask—something you’d get from a costume shop. It was one of those red devil faces, sinister and terrifying. He reached back and locked the door behind him with a leather-gloved hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Alone at last,” he said.

I scrambled back, knocking over vases of flowers and a couple of card stands as I went. “W-who are you? W-what do you want?”

He stepped closer and I had nowhere to go. My tiny shop only had one door in and out, and he was blocking it. I spun and ran for the back, but he grabbed me from behind, yanking me toward him. He pulled so sharply on my dress that I fell, taking him down with me, along with several more vases filled with flowers and water.

I rolled away and scrambled to my feet, but he grabbed the back of my dress again, wrestling me to the floor. He leaned in close to my face. “Finally,” he said. “It’s just you and me.”

No. Not again.

Terror spiked through my body. I fisted his hair and shoved his head back, kicking out, fighting, hitting him with my fists, making contact with whatever I could. He snarled and lifted up to escape my blows. I somehow caught him in the throat, hard. He made a gagging sound, loosening his grip on me. I shoved at him instantly, rolled away and got back to my feet. He roared and came after me but slipped on the water on the floor and fell as I ran for the break room. I shoved the door closed, throwing the lock.

He pounded on it a moment later, cursing when he couldn’t get in.

Oh God. My phone was out there, still under the counter where I’d left it. I spun around, searching for something, a weapon. Pruning shears. They were all I had, but they were sharp. I grabbed the chair I had in there and wedged it under the door handle, then clutched the shears in my sweaty hands.

“Knock, knock. Let me in,” my nightmare called through the heavy door. His voice sounded high, excited.

I said nothing, waiting for what he’d do next.

He roared suddenly and kicked the door. I screamed and dropped the shears. It was happening again. Oh God, it was happening again. He shrieked in rage and kicked the door again several times. It was steel. Strong. Had a good lock, but I had no idea how well it would hold up to a mad man kicking it.

The sound of smashing and things being thrown around came next.

Suddenly, everything went quiet.

I stood there waiting, trying to hear over the pounding of my heart, my own labored breaths. I moved closer to the door, straining to listen.

“This door won’t stop me,” he said, right there, like he was pressed against the other side.

I stumbled back.

“Stuart Coombs was a genius and his work can’t end like this. You weren’t supposed to live, London Rivera.” My stomach lurched hearing that name, the name of the man who had murdered five women before he came after me and attempted to take my life. The door handle rattled and there was a scratching sound. He was trying to find a way to breach the lock, or maybe trying to shove something between the door and its frame.

Tears streamed down my face, and I was shaking so hard my knees gave out. I slid to the floor. No. Please, God, no.

“You were the crescendo and the finale all rolled into one,” he yelled. “You were the awe-inspiring ending that had his audience gasping for breath while they watched, hearts racing, trembling with the need for more, but knowing you were the last.” There was another thump against the door. “How did it feel, London? Knowing you were part of something so big, so profound. That he chose you.”

I didn’t move, barely breathed, and prayed over and over for someone to save me, to stop this from happening again. For Van to rush in like he had back then.

But that wasn’t going to happen, not this time.

“How did it feel when his knife sliced through your body, London, over and over and over again?”

He went silent once more, several long minutes stretching out. For a moment I thought he’d left, but then the door handle rattled, accompanied by the sound of him scratching with something between the door and the frame again.

He roared and there was a loud crash.

“You will feel it again, London. Only this time it will be my blade slicing into your body, shredding your organs, making you bleed.”

It went silent again, an oppressing silence that seemed to crowd in and smother.