Page 1

Selene

I stand at the foot of my bed, staring at the naked man on my mattress. Sprawled out like some prize stag, legs splayed, cock half-hard and glistening with the arrogance of a man who thinks he’s won. His lustful smile stretches wide, teeth yellowed from too many cigarettes, eyes glinting with a hunger that makes my stomach churn. Not because it’s vile, though it is but because it’s so fucking predictable.

They all look at me like this. Like I’m meat to devour. Like they’re the hunters. Idiots . I sway toward him, exaggerating my movements to make him seem like I’m falling for his version of seduction. A grin splits across my face that I know from experience is more demented than lustful. In this man’s haze, his desire to sink into me, he sees it for nothing other than interest.

He’s not even really seeing me . Just the silver hair that spilled over my shoulders at dinner, now in one long braid, the glass-gray eyes he probably thinks are pretty. I hook a leg over his waist, perching on the edge of the bed, my weight sinking into the mattress. His greedy hands shoot up, fingers slipping beneath my shirt, brushing the bare skin at my waist.

I fight the urge to recoil, to rip his grubby paws off me and snap every last bone in them. This is all about the end game and pulling away will have him seeing through the sultry mask I’ve perfected. Blank expression, big smiles, extra tight bra to push up what little assets I have.

Works like a charm every damn time.

“Goddamn, you’re hot,” he rasps, words slurred from one too many drinks at the last bar we went to and then the half a pint of whiskey he stole from my cabinet. If I wasn’t already going to kill the bastard, I would kill him for drinking my beautiful poison I keep for special occasions.

That’s neither here nor there at this moment as I lean down, letting my hair flop over my shoulder, my lips brushing against his in the softest tease. He chases it, tongue thrusting out, sloppy and desperate. It’s pathetic. Wet . Tastes like ash and regret and a sorry-ass excuse for a husband. Oh, did I not mention that this fucker somehow got married?

I pull back, smirking as he groans, frustrated, his cock twitching against my clothed ass. Nothing about him impresses me. Not his kisses, not that sad little prick he’s so proud of. It’s a shriveled thing, barely worth the effort of looking at. Should’ve stayed hidden in his pants where it belongs.

It’s a shame because I could have done with a good hard fuck tonight but that’s obviously not an option with this one. My brows furrow as I try to remember his name and fail miserably. I only know I have the right guy because the woman who hired me gave me pictures. Thank fuck for those. I don’t have time to be memorizing anything else.

I’ll just be glad that after tonight, I won’t be staring at his ugly mug anymore.

“What did you have in mind, baby?” He purrs, although it sounds a lot more like nails on a chalkboard. He thrusts his hips upward, a sloppy movement as my plan starts to shift into place. Ignoring him, I reach over to the nightstand and grab my trusty sidekick, my fingers curling around the cool metal of my surgical knife. The weight of it sings in my palm, a lover’s promise, the only thing that has never failed me. Lifting it to my lips, I give it a small kiss, the cold seeping into my skin.

The man’s eyes widen, that lustful haze flickering into unease. Good. He was just a little too cocky for my taste.

“Hey, uh…” He shifts beneath me, hands stalling on my waist. “I’m not really into that.”

A high, brittle giggle falls from my lips because I’m currently enjoying this change of emotion, the fear that’s starting to emerge from his expression. “Into what?”

“Knife play.” His voice wavers. “I just thought we could fuck around for a while, y’know?”

I snort, leaning closer until my breath ghosts his face. “Neither am I. Not really.” My grin stretches wider, until every last one of my teeth are showing. I’ve been told it’s not a pretty smile, that I really should practice on something softer, but I quite like the fear and unease it puts in people’s eyes. “I’m more into getting revenge for sweet girls who pay me a lot of money.”

He blinks, confusion muddying his features. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, do you not remember Hailey Cooper?” I tilt my head, watching the name sink in, watching his brain scramble to catch up. It’s delicious watching the slow dawn of terror overtake his expression.

“Did that fucking bitch sell me out?”

“No,” I say, voice dropping to a soft purr, every last word lethal. “You killed her. But her sister wants you dead. And I’m here to collect.”

His face twists into a mixture of emotions, anger, fear, and realization all slamming together. He tries to buck me off, hands shoving at my hips, but I’m faster. My thighs clamp down, pinning him to the bed, and I press the knife to his throat, just enough to nick the skin.

A small trickle of crimson follows the length of my blade, excitement blooming in my chest as I watch it trickle onto the baby pink duvet. I never liked this bed or any of the decorations in the guest bedroom, so I suppose this is as good a reason as any to replace everything.

His breath hitches and I suspect he’s starting to understand just who I am. They call me the Reaper out there, in the shadowed corners of Ashthorne County. A faceless monster, leaving flayed husks strewn across the city, hearts ripped out, souls stolen. No one sees the thread tying them together. No one but me. Men who hurt. Men who broke me once or broke someone else.

I’m not picky. Blood’s blood. And tonight, his will paint my hands crimson. I’m so fucking excited.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he spits, voice trembling despite the bravado. His fingers twitch on my hips but he doesn’t move them.

“Crazy’s a lazy word,” I muse, dragging the blade down his chest, a shallow cut, just enough to tease his skin open, spurring me on. The red mark it leaves isn’t quite deep enough but the contrast to his pale skin is fine for now. He hisses, body jerking beneath me. “I prefer… purposeful. You killed Hailey in that alley last week. She said no, and you didn’t like that. Snapped her neck like it was nothing. Left her there, skirt hiked up, dignity shredded. Her sister came to me, sobbing, cash in hand. Begged me to make you pay. And I would never say no to a good paycheck.”

Thing is, if she hadn’t given me money, I still would have been here, contemplating this man’s death. He’s a vile human who needs to learn a lesson. Granted, the money definitely sweetens the deal.

“You’re lying,” he snarls, but the sweat beading on his forehead betrays him. He definitely remembers that sweet little girl.

“Lying’s for people who care what you think. I don’t.” I shift the knife, pressing the tip against his sternum, right where his heart is buried, my true prize of the night. “You’re not walking out of here, sweetheart. You’re a dead man who just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Wait, why can’t I move?” He drawls, his words even more slurred. His mind is alert but his body is slowly being paralyzed, lost to the drug I slipped him earlier, a special concoction that has taken years to perfect.

It’s why I made him undress earlier. Getting those clothes off him later would’ve been a bitch, and I don’t work with fabric in the way. Waiting for my concoction to kick in is always a gamble, though. My surgical skills are as sharp as my favorite blade, but anesthesia? That’s a fucking crapshoot. Too much and he’s a drooling corpse before I get my fun. Too little and he’s flailing while I carve. I like it somewhere in the middle. A sweet spot I’m still chasing.

His bravado cracks fully now, eyes darting to the door, the window, anywhere but me. “Please—look, I’ll pay you. Whatever she gave you, I’ll double it. Triple it. Just let me go.”

I tilt my head, considering it for a heartbeat, just to watch hope flicker in his gaze. Then, I laugh again, watching his face fall. “Money’s nice. Blood’s better.” I flick my hair over my shoulder, the single braid flopping against my back, and then plunge the knife in, piercing skin. His scream rips through the room, before it chokes into a wet gurgle. Blood sprays toward me, splattering my shirt, and I’m instantly glad I opted for the thick one. Much less clean up later.

I revel in his shock, the roses and thorns wrapped around my left arm and spreading up the side of my neck now painted in crimson, almost bringing them to life.

“You’re just a little girl, you fucking bitch. And now what? You terrify me a little and then your big boyfriend comes out to rough me up and teach me a lesson?”

I snort, sitting back fully on his stomach. That fucking cock is still hard, still excited, and it might be the next thing I slash. “First off, that’s Miss Bitch to you. I’m not a little girl . Second, what lesson would you possibly learn from me having someone else rough you up? That I can’t handle you on my own?” My grin stretches again, my cheeks starting to hurt from all the fun I’m having. “And I wouldn’t have fucking drugged you if I had someone else to do my dirty work. You’re really not that smart, are you?”

The panic has fully taken over, not that he can really express it as his hands slowly fall to the bedding. It’s my signal that we’re ready for the next step. My absolute favorite fucking part. Well, one of them. “This is where it ends for you,” I purr. “I was at least going to ride your cock before I got down to business, but then I saw it.” I don’t even bother to twist around and stare at the shriveled thing between his legs. “And it’s just… not impressive.”

His lips part, first a wet gasp and then a scream that seems to come from his soul. I just sag further onto his stomach, waiting for the shrill sound to stop. “They always scream,” I mutter, half to myself, half to my current reality. “They always think I haven’t planned for this, like I haven’t done this a billion fucking times to make sure no one else can hear them.” I tap the dull end of my blade against his chest. “Hey, you little fucker, stop screaming. This apartment’s got reinforced steel and the insulation’s soundproof. Oh my fucking God. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

He doesn’t stop but I didn’t expect him to. It’s bravado at first and then the screams, the realization that they can’t move, that they’ve been caught in my web of lies. I tap his chest again but he’s still screaming, squirming beneath me with what little movement he has left. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter before fishing earbuds from my pocket, hoping to dull the sound of this racket.

And as soon as I fit them into my ears, I grimace, Crimson Throat by some band I can’t remember coming alive. For a moment, I think of searching for my phone and then realize it’s good enough for the mood. The bass thumps, drowning the man beneath me out, my gaze dropping to his twisted-up face. His mouth’s still moving, but now it’s like he’s singing along: a silent karaoke act in my own private hell.

A laugh falls from my lips, a sharp bark that cuts through the music in my head. Fucking poetic .

Hailey’s sister told me to make him suffer and I had to make sure she understood I don’t bring back souvenirs, that there would be no trial. She understood and so started the mission of luring him into my orbit so that I could carve out his heart and store it in my glass wall: my trophy, my pride and joy.

I weave the knife through the air, humming along to the melody before expertly carving into his chest, blade sinking into flesh with a wet, satisfying slice. Blood wells up, spilling over my hands, a fucking mess that I’m more than happy to partake in. Some might have used gloves or gone so far as to wear a hazmat suit.

But I like the crimson rivers, the screams, the squirming. It makes me feel alive in a way that working at the boutique a few streets over as a failed med student never does. The fear in their eyes, the pleas for mercy, the realization that The Reaper is the last thing they’ll ever see.

Maybe I’ll start wearing a cloak? I mentally tell myself to put that on the list as I refocus my efforts, my surgical knife dancing, precise cuts peeling back skin, muscle parting like the most gorgeous meat curtain. I’m going to filet him, strip him bare, and get to the prize inside. His screams fade, a hoarse rasp dying in his throat, and I shrug out an earbud, glad that he’s chosen sanity for once.

“You’re a sick fuck,” he croaks, just above a whisper.

I snort, digging the blade deeper, a shallow arc along his sternum. “No, a sick fuck would do this and then fry you up for a dinner platter.” My grin twists, an unhinged tint showing through. “I don’t desecrate my craft like that. Fucking hell, are your ribs made of steel?” I press harder, sawing through sinew, but the bone resists.

It’s always the ribs. The hardest part, the most tedious. Every time, it’s a slog to get to my prize. His heart. That pulsing, frantic thing I rip out and keep—his soul, his essence, locked away in my little collection.

I should’ve finished med school, maybe. Learned the proper way to crack a chest, split the cage, pluck the treasure free. But that would’ve meant money I didn’t have, time I couldn’t spare. And pretending to have some sort of bedside manner for people I could give a fuck about.

No shortcuts there, just debt and lectures and bullshit. So here I am, self-taught, peeling his skin back like a grotesque flower in full bloom. “I should have sprung for clamps,” I tell myself, once again adding to a mental list of shit I’ll need to buy. My usual tools ended up in a swamp two towns over after a job went sideways. Mishaps happen. Now, it’s just me, this knife, and sheer fucking will. Or…

I shouldn’t but the body is never really what I care about and what state it ends up in doesn’t matter to me so long as I have the heart. Reaching over to the nightstand again, I yank open the drawer, searching for the mallet. It’s supposed to be for emergencies or intruders and I would definitely classify this as the first one.

Time’s ticking and I’m pretty sure I’m late for a meeting at the station. Another murder, one that wasn’t mine. Harley’s probably pacing, growling about leads, oblivious that I’m elbow-deep in my own case right now. I heft the mallet, testing its weight, and his eyes dart to it, panic flaring in his eyes.

“What the fuck are you about to do with that?”

“I have to get to my prize. This part’s probably going to hurt.” In all of my concoctions, I’ve never been able to completely dull the pain but it’s also become my favorite part as they scream their last.

“What’s the point?” he rasps, desperation clawing through. He’s still alive, still fighting, even if it’s just words now. Pathetic.

I tilt my head, glass-gray eyes boring into his. “So, I can watch your face as you realize you’re just as helpless as that little girl you killed. You’ll die beaten, bruised, unable to protect yourself. Just like her.”

The first swing cracks down, a dull thud against his ribcage. Bone splinters, a jagged snap echoing in the room, and he screams again, weaker now, blood bubbling at his lips. Of course, one whack wouldn’t be enough; irritation flares through me as I swing again and again, harder and with more force. Each hit has the ribs splintering, cracking apart until the entire cage caves, a fractured gate.

One of them punctures my treasure, a heavy gasp falling from the man’s lips as his eyes roll into the back of his head. He’ll probably die now, but I’ve had my fun. A few jagged cuts later and I’m holding his still-beating heart in my hands, crimson tears running down my arms and seeping into my shirt. It thumps a few more times, slowly, until it stills, absolute perfection in my palms.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper to myself, a prayer to the ruin I’ve wrought.

The mattress is a slaughterhouse, a soaked, sagging, canvas of gore. I don’t care. It’s just a thing, disposable, like him. I climb off the bed, heart clutched tight in my hands, blood dripping a trail behind me as I bolt toward my bedroom.

My bare feet slap against the glazed porcelain tiles as I shove open my door, headed for my shrine. It’s a hidden closet along the wall, a long door with glass shelves holding all of the souls I’ve stolen over. The first three shelves are already a gallery of death, each jar holding a heart, suspended in a preservative I perfected from med school.

I run my fingers along the favorites, thinking back to men I’ve laid to waste—an abusive stepfather, a professor who wouldn’t keep his hands off of me, my parole officer because I just didn’t like him… It’s become something of an art, my own expression in antique little jars holding evil souls.

This guy is next, but I have to find the perfect piece of glass to enshrine him in.

My gaze falls on the lower shelves, empty jars staring back at me, and then I stop on one of them. A mermaid, her tail the handle, iridescent scales glittering in the dim light. An homage to the way he all but drowned in his own blood. Oh, I’m a fucking genius.