His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Call it what you want.”
“It’s not a matter of want,” I explained. “The literal definition of trophy is a cup or other decorative object awarded as a prize for victory or success.”
“Victory or success.” He nodded. “I like that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Murder is not a victory.”
Preston stopped before a set of double doors and peered down at me. “You seemed pretty pleased with yourself when that frat boy dropped.”
I squared my shoulder’s as I turned away. I was not talking about that with him. He would never understand. Besides…
“He could still be alive for all we know.”
“You’re not that stupid, Marnie.” Preston bent down to whisper in my ear. “You knew exactly what would happen when you dumped that vial into his drink.”
“I’m not like you, Preston.” Just because I gave him more than four times what a man his size could safely handle didn’t mean Chase would die. There was a chance he could’ve been saved.
“No, you’re not.” Preston sighed. “I don’t hide my kills behind divine retribution.”
I didn’t hide behind anything divine. The very thought of that made me nauseous. There was nothing divine about justice.
“Death is never my intent.”
He cocked a brow. “Yet you don’t feel bad about it.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because Preston was right. I didn’t feel bad. Not a single twang of guilt flowed through my veins for Chase or any of the others. I told myself they got what they deserved, but was I deluding myself? Did I really not care? Was I just as bad as the people I delivered justice to?
I looked up at the smirk on his face, and for the first time in my life, I questioned my moral standing.
“Welcome to my world, Little Bird.”
No!
I wasn’t anything like him.
Preston wanted to see the world burn. I wanted to see people like him burn. That didn’t make me honorable, but it didn’t make me evil, either.
“Sometimes, the only thing that can slay a monster is another monster.”
The smirk on his face grew into a grin that sent a shiver down my back. “Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”
Not this again.
I huffed out a sigh. “I thought Micha was waiting.”
Not that I was super excited to see him or anyone from Preston’s nefarious club. It was better than getting into a moral debate with someone who had none. Talk about a waste of time.
His face fell, twisting the grin into a scowl. “Yes, he is.”
Someone seemed annoyed. Perhaps that was something I could use.
Preston pushed the doors open and led me into a large kitchen. I looked around at the dark wooden floors, tan stone island, and stainless steel appliances. This room was bright and sunny, with everything anyone could want—a microwave, coffee station, and hanging pots and pans. There was even a vase of fresh flowers sitting on the table in front of a bay window.
It was the kind of kitchen Stepford housewives dreamed of owning. I, however, was more interested in the knives sitting next to a large oak butcher’s block.
“Took you long enough.”
Oh, and there was Micha.
