Kylie Bray (Love, Hate and Billions)

Chapter 46 (Kylie)

“Do you remember their faces?” Vincent asks me.

A week has gone since I was rescued from my hell. Seven days too late.

I begged Vincent not to tell the Stones or anyone what happened to me in there.

The condition is that I tell him everything.

Deno has the videos, I don't need to, they can watch, get a glimpse inside Kylie Bray's assassination.

She is dead, gone. I am not Kylie Bray any longer, I am Frost, I told him that. From NôvelDrama.Org.

I feel nothing, no pain, no remorse, no wrong or right.

Well, that isn't quite accurate, I still feel for him. I hate him. He keeps me alive when I want to die.

That thought makes me want to laugh, and I do. I laugh and laugh until he gets up and leaves.

Then I scream into my pillow. This fucking bed is driving me crazy, it's so soft.

I want to be on the floor but every time I am on the floor he gets me up.

“I hate you,” I scream, knowing he is listening.

Vincent is always fucking listening.

He walks back into the room with that fucking glass of his, drinking his brandy.

“Get the fuck out,” I scream at him.

“Careful Kylie, my patience is getting thin.”

“My patience is getting thin Kylie.” I mimic his words, taunting him on.

He finishes his drink, walking slowly next to the bed, putting it down.

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he sits on the edge of the bed.

I'm playing with fire, he is thinking it.

I know I am, because I want to get burned.

I want him to kill me.

“Kill me. I want to die,” I snap at him, bringing my face close to his.

He takes my hand that is closest to his and picks it up, revealing my wrist. I watch the action, is he

going to slit it and make it look like a suicide.

Vincent has never not surprised me, never not done the opposite of what I think he will.

He kisses my pulse, right where I think he would cut. And instead of cutting my wrist, he cuts me with

his intense stare as it looks on to my eager, hopeful one.

“I can never kill you, Kylie.”

I try to take my hand back, but he tightens his hold on my fragile skin forcing my attention to not deter

from his deep eyes.

“Why,” the word rips out of me, “why won't you just end it, please.”

He shakes his head, his hold on my wrist getting tighter,

“Because Kylie.”

“Tell me dammit, tell me.”

“You are my muse.”

He lets my wrist go, picks up his glass, gets off the bed, buttons his jacket, and walks out. Leaving me

with those four words.

“You are my muse,” I repeat, “His muse.”

“Tell me for fucks sake. You got a mouth use it.”

I am sure his men stationed outside this hotel suite that I have been cooped up in for the past month

can hear him.

We've been sitting on these chairs for hours, all these men's pictures scattered across the glass table.

He wants to know, he wants faces, names.

I look into his drunk face, because that is what he is, he is always drinking his fucking brandy,

“All of them, okay, thirty three men raped me, lucky number thirty three,” I laugh, howling like the crazy

person I am.

He never minds or stops it, even if he did, he can go fuck himself for all I care.

“So I was thinking, do I add them to my fuck list or not.”

The thought just makes me laugh harder.

His eyes widen, lifting his brandy now with trembling fingers. I don’t stop laughing watching him

swallow the double shot left in the glass and set it down.

“Change your clothes we leaving.”

“Where to?”

“To see a man about a dog.”

I roll my eyes, at his poor attempt of a joke,

“Does this man have a name?”

“Yes.”