The Undoing - Shelly Laurenston


He packed more dirt on her body.

She felt it now. Felt the dirt falling against her face, her arms and legs. He was trying to wipe away all evidence of her. Pretend she didn’t exist. Pretend she’d never existed.

He’d like that.

She breathed and dirt went up her nose. She began to panic. Then she remembered the words.

The words the veiled woman had spoken to her. Her voice had been strong, confident. She’d called herself Skuld and she’d offered her something no one ever had before.

“You’ll be my vengeance. You’ll be my rage. It’s in you and now . . . now you can let it out. Release it. Revel in it. Drown yourself in it.”

Could she? She’d allowed her rage to come out once before. . . and now she was in her grave. Her husband piling dirt on her. Burying her. Burying the truth.

Her truth.

No. She wouldn’t let him do that. She’d never let him get away with that. She’d told him to back off just once and this was what he did. He killed her.

But Skuld was giving her more than just a second chance. She knew that as the rage flowed through her like wine. Through her bloodstream, into her muscles.

She pulsated with life and hatred.

So. Much. Hatred.

She couldn’t wait to unleash it upon the world.

But first . . . him.

The dirt was packed tight, but she was stronger now. No longer the weak thing he kept weaker with bizarre diets and restrictions on when she could eat. Strength pounded throughout her body and she used that strength to force her fists through the dirt he’d packed on top of her. As she moved up, pushing her way through, she could hear voices. He was no longer alone.

Orders were given. “Drop the shovel! Hands above your head! Do it now!”

The police.

She didn’t care.

Her hands broke through the dirt, and she took a moment to stretch her fingers before she pressed them against the ground and pulled the rest of her body out.

As she cleared the earth, one of the officers, gun held out in front of him, leaned over and with wide eyes watched.

So shocked, he didn’t say a word, even as she launched herself out of her grave and at her husband’s back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, legs, and around his waist.

Opening her mouth wide, she bit down on the side of his neck, tearing through flesh and muscle into the veins below.

He screamed, spinning in circles, hands reaching back, trying desperately to pry her off. But she wouldn’t let go. Not until he was dead. She wanted him dead.

“Get her off me!” he begged the officers. “Dear God! Get her off!”

Some of the police began to laugh, until they saw the blood stream down her husband’s shoulder and chest.

More hands reached for her, trying to pull her off. They could do nothing. She was too strong.

At least she was until the officers were pushed away by one man and big hands grabbed her around the waist, yanking her away.

“Jesus!” someone screamed when a good chunk of her husband’s neck went with her. She spit it out, along with blood and saliva, snarling like a wild animal as she struggled to get back to him. To finish him off.

Her husband dropped to the ground, hand over his wound, eyes locked on her. They both knew that he’d killed her . . . and yet she lived. Despite him she lived.

“I’ll kill you for what you did!” she screamed. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

She just kept screaming that last phrase over and