Page 2

Selene

I’ve been saving that beauty for a kill this sweet, and now that it’s finally here, I can barely contain my excitement. I scramble toward the jar, fumbling one bloody hand with it, the other clutching the heart to my chest. Blood is soaking through my shirt, staining the cotton, but that’s the least of my worries.

It’s the fact that my favorite lilac lace bra will be splotched with a man who’s not worth the time to scrub out the stains. And I just got this set. Expensive as hell and it’ll take me at least another paycheck to grab another one.

The top soon comes off and I drop the heart inside, the organ landing with a soft plop, blood pooling at the bottom, still warm from his chest. “I’ll preserve it later,” I mutter to myself. Right now, it’s perfect. Well, mostly perfect. The red swirls around the glass as I tilt it, watching the heart bob. Beautiful. Mine .

The next part’s less pretty—dragging a dead asshole out of my apartment and setting him up for the world to choke on. I step back into the hall after placing the jar in its rightful place and glance toward the guest bedroom. He’s still there, sprawled out, chest flayed, ribs a jagged ruin. A husk ready for display, just another step in my masterful craft as The Reaper .

Where should I drop him this time? The alley behind the boutique’s too obvious, too close to my cover. The park’s tempting, letting joggers find him under the rising sun. I don’t work tonight, so a lovely night stroll could do it—dump him somewhere poetic, let Ashthorne County wake up to my handiwork.

But the planning will have to wait till later, my stomach interrupting the silence as it yells for me to feed it. “When’s the last time I ate?” I count and realize it’s been at least twelve hours, maybe longer. If I don’t eat something now, I’ll regret it later. Harley will just have to wait. The bastard will ridicule me the moment I step into the station anyway, an ex who never truly let go and was definitely one of the ones who thought they could fix me.

With a heavy sigh, I stomp back across the tile and into the kitchen, the bright light showing just how much of me has been soaked in this man’s blood. It’s crusted under my nails, streaked up my forearms, covering my shirt and the half top of my jeans. At least my crotch is dry or I’d have to filet that man just a little bit more.

I turn the faucet on, scrubbing at my hands and arms, red swirling down the drain. The river of crimson makes it look like my rose tattoo is actively bleeding: a living breathing thing as the remnants of this man’s life disappears into nothingness. I’m almost done when my phone vibrates on the counter. A frown takes over my face as I dry my hands on my ass, the only clean part of me, and then grab my phone. Dante’s name lights up the screen and then a text comes in a second later.

Bitch, where are you?

“Fuck.”

Childhood friend, ex-cop turned consultant, a nosy bastard who thinks he knows me. I scan the kitchen for a clock and I grimace, realizing I was supposed to meet Harley over an hour ago, but Dante is never far behind, clinging to work he supposedly retired from. And apparently, since I work at the boutique on the strip, they wanted to ask me a few questions about a murder that happened recently.

My fingers fly over the screen.

Hey, sorry, lost track of time, I’ll be there .

Don’t bother. I’m already here.

My eyes go wide, heart lurching in my chest from the sudden, electric jolt of oh-fuck. I spin, staring across the living room toward the guest bedroom. The door’s still open, carnage and blood-soaked bedding spilling into view, my art laid bare for anyone who steps into the living room. “Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, bolting toward it.

I slam the door shut, frantically looking around for anything and everything that I need to clean before this fucker steps into my apartment. There’s nothing in plain view until I look down at myself, and fuck, it’s bad.

There’s no explaining this, not to Dante, not to anyone. My grin falters, replaced by a groan as I peel off my shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin. The bra’s next, a lost cause. I toss them aside, then shimmy out of my jeans, sighing with relief when I find that my panties remain untouched. Thank fuck. I really like this set and knowing that half of it is still wearable is better than nothing.

Gathering up my clothes, making sure to keep them away from my chest, I dart to the washing machine beside the guest bedroom and stuff my clothes inside. There’s a multiple step process if I were to salvage the clothing but right now, I just need it out of sight.

That’s when I hear my front door creaking open, my pulse spiking as I glare at the entrance. I throw my arms across my chest, confused and a little terrified until I see Dante stepping inside, his dark eyes locking on mine before sliding down my nearly naked body. Heat prickles across my skin, panic trying to take over my rational thought.

I clear my throat, voice rougher than I would have liked. “Hi. Sorry I was late.”

He steps further inside, his dress shoes clicking against my tiled floor as the door shuts behind him, a deliberate click echoing in the silence. “What have I told you about locking your doors, kitten?” His voice is always so fucking smooth, like molasses and a melody had a baby. It sends a shiver down my spine as he pulls his gun from its holster, setting it on the counter with a soft thud. His fingers move to his sleeves, rolling them up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. The leather belt goes next, set beside his gun as well, like he’s settling in.

Like he lives here.

But I know better. He’s about to teach me a lesson and I’m a sick individual for wanting it.

Still, I have to play into the game to make him give me the rough side of him he hides so well. “Hey, wait,” I blurt, stepping back, my free arm still clutching my chest. “I just came—I just…” My eyes dart to the guest bedroom door, then snap back to him.

He tilts his head, a predator sizing up prey, a deviant smile curling his lips. “It could’ve been anyone sliding in here, catching you in those panties.” He stalks forward, closing the gap, and before I can dodge, his hand snakes out, yanking me against him. Everything about his touch is possessive, a reverent claim reminding me who I belong to.

I might be my own woman but in moments like this, there’s no denying he’s in charge.

“We’re not dating,” I snap, shoving my hand into his chest. “You can’t tell me to do anything.” That only serves to piss him off, his breed of irritation on an entirely different level than any other man I’ve been with. I’m torn between terror and turned on, my panties soaked but not with blood. My heart beats a little faster, my fight or flight response kicking in.

But running from a man like Dante would only be a challenge to him; one that he’d win.

A dark chuckle falls from his lips as he steps closer, wrapping a firm hand around the front of my neck, his thumb digging into my chin to angle it upward. His eyes are almost black, a void of lust and dominance that has me giving up my fight. And when he leans down, his breath fanning my ear, a hint of a growl in his words, I’m little more than a puddle. “You’re still mine, sweetheart. I also think we need to have another lesson.” His other hand moves to my waist, fingers roughly digging into the bare skin. “You don’t hide from me, kitten. Now, panties off.”

My stomach lurches from the guest room door mocking me ten feet away. Dante’s too fucking close for my liking and knowing him, he’ll catch a whiff of copper, a smear I missed. “Strip for me,” he demands, voice dropping a few more octaves. “The rules haven’t changed.”

I know they haven’t. He’s drilled them into my head a billion fucking times after he became my lifeline, a way to get an itch scratched, a booty call that was always just a text away. Dante’s so much more than that but that’s all he can be to me. After all, he works a rather respectable job while I leave little presents around the county for him to find.

Not that he knows. Even if some twisted part of me wonders if he finds some kind of fascination in my art. Would he lock me up if he found out? Or would he fuck me over one of their corpses as praise for my work?

“Kitten,” Dante purrs, tearing me from my thoughts. “Don’t make me ask again.”