Page 86 of Nightshades

I have a mate to see, to fuck, to breed, to claim. I’d rather be with her, learning her body, her sounds, her wants, her fear, than to be here.

Stopping in my tracks, my emotions mix on that recent thought. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

Lula’s fear has a sense of safety to it. There’s no judgment, no harshness, no hate.

Only love. Understanding. And thrill.

Oh, the thrill she is so desperate for, I’m more than happy to give her. Her enthusiasm for pain, for adventure, for the fear I so desperately crave, she gives.

No one could ever compare to my mate. She was created for my body, which only makes me thankful that I am what I am. If I had remained human, I would have never been able to meet her.

And what a damn fucking catastrophe that would have been. I would have missed the most beautiful, remarkable woman I have ever laid eyes on.

Yeah, there’s no way I would turn back the clock to be human, not if it meant losing the one person in the world who understands me more than anyone ever has. She barely knows anything about me too, since we haven’t known one another very long, but she knows more than most of the people who have ever been in my life. She knows the worst parts, the dark, bloody, sad, unforgivable parts that warped my soul into who I am today.

If my mate told me she doesn’t care who I kill, that only heightens the freedom I’ve always felt.

“What was that?”

I smirk as I stand behind the van. I knew there were two of them.

“What? No one. It was probably a stray dog or something,” her friend replies.

Or something.

“Christina. I’m serious. It sounded creepy. Like a song from a scary movie.”

“You’re just freaking out because you shot someone, Becca.”

Beccaaww.I wonder if her friend is the same Christina in Lula’s files. The embezzler. That would be fucking fantastic.

I snicker at my inner thoughts, then frown, because I’ve never been funny. I’m not a funny guy. I don’t make jokes, not even to myself. Enough of that. Being funny ruins my fucking mood.

I listen to their bickering while I have my cigarette. Becca’s panic and anxiety smell bitter and rancid to me, nothing like Lula’s. Hers almost makes me cough, which would give away my position.

“Because I shot someone!” Becca screeches. “I didn’t just shootsomeone, Christina.”

“I killed someone! And he wasn’t just anybody. I shot Harold. Cute, old, happy Harold who offered me a fucking job last week!” Her voice becomes higher with emotion, and my eyes roll while I blow out smoke.

“He was old as fuck anyway,” Christina tries to reason. “His days were probably numbered. If anything, you did him a favor.”

“I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I killed someone. I’m going to go to prison. My life is over. I’m?—”

“—Oh, shut up!” Christina yells. “You aren’t going to prison. There’s no proof of who did this. Our faces were covered, the gun isn’t traceable, and Harold didn’t have any security cameras. We are fine. No one saw us either. We are rich.” Christina cackles, and the clinking of hard materials clinks together.

She must be dipping into her bag of gems.

“We can go wherever we want,” she continues. “Be whatever we want. Do whatever we want. Rich people get away with anything and everything. All we have to do is get out of town after we remove the plates from this van and add another set.”

Christina makes valid points. Her mind is twisted, a little similar to mine, which I respect, but they are forgetting one major detail they weren’t expecting.

Me.

“You’re right,” Becca exhales, her heart rate calming. “I still don’t like that I killed him, but he came at me, and I panicked. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know you didn’t, but I’m not mad at you. We did what we had to do.”

“La-lala-la-la-laaa,” I sing, frowning when I see my cigarette is nearly gone.