Page 32 of Raziel

I pulled it out.

There was a photo of Maya.

Her kitchen was in the background, her hair piled up in that messy knot. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, fingers tugging at the hem of that thin sleep shirt—just high enough to tease a strip of smooth, dark skin over her thick thighs.

I groaned.

Looking at her gave me heart palpitations.

There was a message:

“I want cake. From the spot you always go to.”

A smirk tugged at my mouth. Just a flicker.

I tucked the phone back into my pocket. This wasn’t the time for that.

About five minutes later, another buzz. Another message.

“I said I want cake.”

Then there was another selfie. Her mouth in full pout. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like she was two seconds from throwing a tantrum. She was so cute.

I thumbed out a reply:

“Order it for delivery. Use my card.”

Her response was instant. Another picture. Face scrunched up like a pissed-off kitten. No words needed.

She wanted me to bring her the cake.

I wasn’t going to.

I stuffed my phone back into my pocket.

I had been spending too much time with her.

Time bred attachment.

And attachment bred stupidity.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let that happen.

Wouldn’t fall into the soft parts of her.

Priest stepped back from the chair, drawing my attention, wiping his hands on a stained towel. “He’s not talking.”

“He’s not going to,” I muttered. I couldn’t even remember why the guy was tied to the chair, actually.

I pushed off the wall, strode forward, pulled my gun, and put a bullet between his eyes.

His body sagged, the chair creaking under the sudden dead weight.

I turned for the door.

“Where are you going?” Priest asked, drying his hands like we were standing in some fucking diner instead of a slaughterhouse.

“I’ve got somewhere to be.”