Page 1 of Blood (A Killer’s Love #4)

CHAPTER ONE

Kaleb

My chest heaves and my throat burns with every panted breath. Puffs of cold air collect in front of my face as my fingers grapple with my belt buckle.

Outside at the end of October isn’t the ideal time for this, but it’s been fucking weeks, and I’m done waiting.

I need this.

The knife tucked beneath my tee presses farther into my back with every jostle of the leather in my hands. A sharp reminder of what may come after.

My cock couldn’t get any harder.

Leaves crunch as the woman in front of me crawls backward. The lip between her teeth hides her own rushed breaths, but her bare chest is proof of our little chase.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snarl.

Her hands still, clutching the edges of her torn blouse.

“I’m cold.” She shivers.

“I don’t fucking care.”

I’m not paying her to be fucking warm.

She matches my glare with one of her own, her black eyebrows pull down, and the sight annoys me. I glance at her golden locks . The next one needs to be a natural blond.

My cock throbs, reminding me of why I’m in the woods in the middle of fucking winter. With my belt open, my fingers move to my zipper.

“Money first!”

Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet before tossing two hundred dollars onto the frosted ground at her feet. “Tits out and pull up your fucking skirt,” I order. The metal at my back shifts again, tempting me to end tonight in more than a quick fuck.

“Asshole,” she whispers.

I drop to my knees between her spread legs with a chuckle. “What I’m about to do to you makes me an asshole.”

Opening my wallet again, I grab the small wrapper tucked next to the bills at the back and secure it between my teeth, then I drop my wallet beside her hip.

Shuffling forward, I release my pants button and reach into my boxers, hissing as my cold fingers brush the sensitive skin aching for attention.

“I’m wet and ready.”

“I don’t care.” I shoot back through my clenched teeth.

The tips of my fingers barely wrap around my cock when my text tone pierces the air. Rolling my eyes, I brush it off.

It’s probably the family group chat.

But it sounds again and again. Three quick texts followed by silence. Fuck! Condom still in my mouth, I keep my eyes on the woman spread out before me as I dig out my cell.

Dad: 911

Dad: 911

Dad: 911

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Everything around me falls away. Spitting the condom wrapper on the ground, I stagger to my feet and press the call button. My chest restricts, and my breaths halt, but it’s not the cold. Panic surges through me with every ring that sounds in my ear.

My stomach drops when it goes to voicemail. Ending the call, I try again. And again. Why the fuck is he not answering?

My hands shake as I scroll to my mother’s number. She always answers. Always.

“Come on, come on,” I plead, turning away from the body still laid out on the ground.

I call my brothers next—Daniel and then Michael.

My vision blurs more and more with every unanswered call. I can’t lose another family.

Spinning, I startle the woman, causing her to drop back down, but she quickly sits up when I rush over.

Bending down, I snatch my wallet. I press call for Daniel’s wife, but Charlie’s call goes unanswered too.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t bother looking at her. Instead, I wedge my cell between my shoulder and ear, shove my wallet into my back pocket, and refasten my pants.

Walking away, I leave her sitting on the cold soil.

“Hey! Wait! Where the fuck are you going?”

I don’t know why I answer, but I do. “Home.”

“Was it her?” she asks, scurrying to catch up.

Lara’s voicemail sounds in my ear. I don’t leave a message. Daniel’s wife didn’t answer, and neither did Michael’s. I blink quickly.

“Who?” I growl, pulling the cell away from my face. Why is no one in this family answering? Desperate, I search for Sam’s number, Daniel and Michael’s sister. Typing in Brat, I send up a silent prayer.

Please answer.

But it’s no good. My heart squeezes again. I’m going to have a heart attack at twenty-seven.

The woman beside me wrestles with her shirt, fastening the buttons as she shivers in the cold air. “Sammy,” she mutters distractedly.

My whole body freezes—my legs, my heart, my breath.

Seeing my face, she rushes on, “You called me that earlier when you chased me. Figured she was your girlfriend.”

“You figured wrong,” I sneer through clenched teeth. “Never say that fucking name again,” I hiss, my finger near her face.

Seeing her cower, I curse.

Pushing forward on unsteady feet, I fight the direction of my thoughts and why my family isn’t answering. But it’s no good.

Three 911 texts are something that my brothers and I agreed on as our way of saying life and death. Images of worst-case scenarios assault me while my rig comes into view. I need to get back to Cromwell Town. Now.

If they’re gone, then so am I . . . right after I kill every motherfucker involved.

I’m not living this shitty life without them.

My sixth call to Michael goes to voicemail. “Answer the fucking phone!” My roar carries out into the dark night. I glance around the area for any threat, but no one is parked close by.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful to have parked at the back of the truck stop. Something that feels like hope mixes with my fear until I remember that life and death are the only reasons for that text.

Dread settles heavily in my stomach, and saliva fills my mouth.

I’m going to be sick.

Fishing out my keys, I pocket my phone for just a second. Gripping the handle on the side of the truck with one hand and the inner door handle with the other, I heave myself inside. My hand shakes as I reach out to close the door, but a petite blonde blocks it.

“What about me?” she asks incredulously.

“Move!”

“How am I supposed to get back to town?” she huffs.

“You’re in a fucking truck stop with dozens of lonely men. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Pulling the door closed, I force her to step out of the way.

She throws up her middle finger, stepping farther back.

Rolling my neck, I start the truck and call my dad again.

I’m not a good person. I don’t deserve most things. But over my dead fucking body will I lose this family.

The engine roars as I head toward the lot entrance, the whore giving me a few creative gestures in my side mirror. But she doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Nothing but my family.

Four hours.

I’m four hours from home.

I crank up the speed as I merge onto the I-90. Sniffing, I breathe out a stuttered breath.

Four long fucking hours.