Rawr Rawr, Motherfucker
I stood under the steaming hot shower, washing the hair I hadn't cleaned in weeks; washing off the look of death and drugs. It was all I needed to make this perfect.
Bella did her part, I did mine, and it was over.
Royce won't touch me again.
I loved that prick. Loved him so much it hurt. Physically. I could've taken it if it was emotional. I spent ten years in the Central Intelligence Agency, and I knew how to handle the words people said; I could handle their fists and anger and rage. But when the man I loved and adored first raised his fist to me, I froze.
I'd been home from Afghanistan for twelve hours. Home from war and water-boarding the fucking Taliban, and my fiancé raped me. Raped. Me. I could've killed him. I could've taken him down then and there, but the shock to my system was enough to immobilize me.
I spent the next two years investigating, discovering, and plotting. I became the part I needed to play. Revenge is a plate best served cold.
But there was nothing cold about his hot blood on the floor.
There was nothing cold about Jake Black's life leaving his body. Bella shouldn't have touched him after his body fell to the floor. She got blood all over herself, and made my job a hell of a lot harder. Nothing cold about burning thousands of dollars worth of clothes because the stupid bitch had to check her handy work.
She was easy enough. A tortured soul in need of escape.
And now she's doing a fucking Katie Couric interview. Like ten years is enough time to wait. I understand she wants to be free of the memories of him, but. What the fuck. What the royal fuck is she thinking. If my name comes into this, she's toast.
A/N: Because there's no way we can leave Heroin Chic alone.
Let's have another view.
Welcome to Rosalie, Badass Extraordinaire.