Page 89 of Chained

"Sorry, I'm a little frazzled. My husband is missing. I was hoping you were the police, but…" She swallows, grabbing her notebook from the side. I drop my bag onto the kitchen counter, slowly unzipping it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say softly. "I hope they find him soon."

"Me too, love." I almost break at the sound of sorrow in her voice. I bury my hands into the bag, feeling for the blade I know will be sat at the bottom. Suddenly, the rapid pace of my heart begins to slow the minute my hand wraps around the handle, and I begin to feel it—the bubbling in my stomach, the ache in my chest that's begging for release.

"Well, I'll just have a look around, and then I'll be out of your hair," I call over my shoulder, my mind suddenly clear. Empty. No voices, no one telling me to stop. I turn, blade in hand, and move quietly towards her. She's got her back to me, head buried inside her notebook. She'll never know. It'll be quick. It'll be over soon.

I lunge fast, wrapping my arm around her neck, pulling her into me until her back is pressed against my chest. She screams, the sound flooding my ears. I clamp my eyes closed for a second, waiting to hear Adrian, to hear the promise we'd made, but it doesn't come. Nothing does. I expect my heart to race, for my hands to shake, but I've never been more steady. She fights against my hold, her hands at my wrists, nails digging into my skin until she's clawing at my arm, her body bucking against me. I take the blade, holding it to her throat.

"Don't fight it," I whisper.

"Please, my grand—" I slice the blade fast across her throat. She tries to speak, but words don't come. Only the sound of spluttering as blood fills her mouth, spilling out onto her chin. I drop her to the floor, my eyes fixed on her face, my hands covered in her blood, and I stay here, waiting for the euphoria to come. Waiting for the regret. But I'm left with nothing.

I feel nothing.

"Nanny?"

My head jolts to the side, and that's when I see him. A small boy who can't have been more than six years old. My heart begins to beat again, until I fear it may jump out of my chest. I wipe away at the sweat dripping from my forehead, smearing blood onto my face, and move quickly to the boy. Fuck, he can't see this. He can't see what I've done.

"Hey, buddy," I whisper, grabbing him under his arms, leaving bloody handprints on his white t-shirt.

"What happened to my nanny? Is she okay?"

"She's just had an accident. She'll be fine," I lie through gritted teeth, his sad, sweet voice already imprinted into my mind. I push into the living room, placing him onto the sofa. What the fuck do I do? I can't leave him, but I can't fucking stay. My eyes land on the phone sat on the coffee table, the kids' show running in the background.

"Hey, buddy, I need you to be a big boy for Nanny, okay?" I wipe some of the blood from my hands onto my shirt and dial 999 on the phone. "I need you to tell them Nanny's had an accident, okay? And you're all alone. Can you do that, pal?"

He nods, small tears trickling down his cheeks as he takes the phone from my hands. I move fast, panic flooding through me. Have I just fucked up that kid for life? Fuck, what have I done? I rush into the kitchen, avoiding the sight of her on the ground, the blood pooling around her body, and grab the bag.

I don't check on him again. I can hear him as I pass, talking to an officer. I sprint out the door and head straight for my car.

I don't remember the drive home. I don't remember how or when I'd walked back inside the manor doors, or how I'd found myself standing in front of the punching bag inside the training room, but somehow, this is where I am. I hurl my fists into the bag, over and over, until the skin on my knuckles begins to split. It doesn't hurt. Nothing does. I don't bother to look; fuck, my own blood would only be moulding together with the blood that's already there. I just keep punching, my breathing unsteady, legs trembling. This doesn't happen, not after a kill. I should be revelling in the feeling of having blood on my hands, hearing Archie's voice in my head as he sings my praises, but I hear nothing. Instead every time I close my eyes, I see him. The boy.

The sound of the doors slamming behind me pulls me back to reality. I don't need to turn to know who it is.

"Come to gloat?" I call out.

"Why would I be gloating?" Adrian's voice fills the silence. I ignore him, hands placed on the punching bag to steady it. I know he's here to give some big-brother speech, to talk me off the ledge he thinks I'll be standing on. His boots scuff against the wood floor as he takes a step closer.

"There's nothing I could have done to prepare you for this, kid. I told you what would happen if you went there."

"I'm fine," I snap back.

"You're anything but fine, Jax. You're a mess."

I turn, rubbing my knuckles in my palm, and stare straight into his eyes. "I'm exactly who you taught me to be—" I turn back, throwing another punch into the bag. "I'm exactly what you all fucking wanted me to be."

Adrian steps further into the room, slow, the way you'd approach something wounded. "You think I wanted this for you? Any of it?"

"I think you've had fourteen years to do something different, and you never did."

That lands. I see it, the way his jaw sets.

"Different like what?"

"Different like letting me go." The words have been sitting in my chest for years, and now that they're out, I can't stop them.

"You think I didn't want to help you?" His voice cracks on the last word, and for a second, the anger in his face slips into something rawer. "You think I've just, what? Stood here all these years and enjoyed watching them turn you into something I never wanted for you?"