Page 7 of His Darkest Obsession

I walk back behind him. “Do you expect me to believe that you don’t make any enemies? Dressed like that? Wearing that watch?”

“I don’t.” Something dark flickers in his eyes as the razor approaches his neck. “I make examples.”

I gaze down at him.

He stares up at me.

"Please don't talk when I'm using the razor." I say quietly when I find my voice again. "I wouldn't want it to make you an example."

“Hmm.”

My free hand moves to hold his chin, and heat licks up my arm from the point of contact until it reaches my face. The razor descends slowly and kisses his skin.

His eye darts away from mine for a moment to read my name tag clipped to my apron.

“Which came first…” he asks, his Adam’s apple throbbing under my hand with every syllable. “The name or the hair?"

My stomach does an involuntary backflip and I fight to keep my hand steady.

He’s observant, I’ll give him that. More observant than I’d like. Instantly, alarm bells start ringing in my head.

Because he’s getting dangerously close to an awful truth.

“What did I say about talking?” I remind him softly.

The blade draws a smooth path up his neck, over the hump of his Adam’s apple, and flicks off his angular jaw. The scraping sound of steel on flesh is a welcoming distraction. Slowly, I feel myself becoming settled as I focus on the task at hand.

But just then, the commercial ends and an ad from the mayor’s campaign comes on. My ears prick up at the sound of a familiar voice from the TV. First in Spanish, and then in English.

“This November, make your voices heard, New York. Because a vote for Grant Bennet is a vote for…”

Most people might describe Mayor Bennet’s voice as a smooth and rich baritone. But me? That voice sounds like a jackhammer ripping up the concrete sidewalks.

And I’ll be fine withneverhearing it again.

Reflexively, my fingers tighten around the handle of the razor and my hand starts shaking again. But this time, not from nerves.

From anger.

Don’t listen. Focus on what you’re doing.I keep repeating to myself.On anything but that bastard’s voice coming from that TV.

The razor draws another long slow stroke from the man’s neck towards his jaw before flicking away.

"Did you know that the mayor has someinterestingskeletons in his closet?" The man starts talking again. “Skeletons that he’s willing tokillto keep hidden?”

My hand freezes.

Those blue eyes drill into mine, deadly serious and focused.

“Want to ask why I’m here again,printsessa?”

Oh God. Oh no. Oh fuck.

I was right. Heishere for me.

My hand starts shaking. I have no reason not to believe that he’s not telling me the truth right now. And I know that I have to act. It’s either him, or it’s me.

I’m not akiller.