A smirk tugs at the corner of Alaric’s mouth. A cruel one.
“Anyway, the money’s gone. But on the upside…”
Without warning, he prods the duct tape harder than necessary with the toothpick. Harold’s blood paints it red. His muffled screams leak through the tiny holes Alaric carves into the gag.
“At the bottom of the Hudson River…”
Alaric drops the toothpick and discards the straw. My jaw drops when his chest heaves with barely restrained rage. When he presses a hand to Harold’s forehead and pours the contents of the Mason jar all over his mouth and face.
My prince.
“…you won’t have to worry about money.” Green liquid soaks Harold’s chin and chest. “Your inheritance.”
Before Harold starts reacting to the liquid, Alaric is already at the table. He does this strangetapagain,and then returns to Harold.
“Or your mother. Ever again.”
Satisfaction swarms over me at the sight of Harold’s face swelling. He’s in agony, struggling to suck in air through his nose and the tiny hole in the duct tape.
The bastard is wheezing, thrashing, coughing. The skin on his throat strains, pulling tight.
My own skin tingles with glee.
Alaric must be enjoying this too, but he doesn’t let his feelings show.
Rooted in place, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze is narrowed and impersonal.
He’s making sure that the last thing Harold sees is the face of a man who couldn’t give a fuck about him but wants him dead anyway.
He doesn’t get to look at Alaric for long, though.
His eyes roll to the back of his head.
Color drains from his face.
I’m at the edge of my seat, heart palpitating, then?—
“There you go.” Just like last time, Alaric sticks the unrecognizable brand of epinephrine pen to Harold’s outer thigh.
The fucker snaps back into consciousness, his body shaking, rattling the sturdy chair.
His obvious distress means nothing to Alaric, whose expression remains impassive as he taps the table again, then scribbles more secrets in his notebook.
That’s hot. What’s hotter is Alaric grabbing another Mason jar when he’s done.
Same size. Same liquid.
Yes, sir, Dr. Lockwood.
“Pwease.” Harold’spleaseis as frail and pitiful as he is. “No mow.”No more.
He should’ve thought about that before he laid a single finger on his mother.
Ignoring his pleas, Alaric presses a hand to Harold’s forehead and forces his head back. The greenish liquid lands on his face, into the hole in the duct tape, and everywhere else.
Harold’s already swelling when Alaric places the jar on the table, taps, and watches him intently.
If not for his captive going through what seems to be a terrible anaphylactic shock, I would’ve been jealous of the attention Alaric gives him.