Page 1 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

M y blood is hot and tingly as it courses through veins that feel stretched taut and thin, like pumping cream through a small paille .

I can feel the shudder of the heartbeats in my chest, thumping loud and heavy.

A pretty rhythm, I think, as adrenaline twists and swirls its way through my body.

I’ve been accused of not having a heart at all, but I fight that lie with every breath I take.

I have a heart—it’s just a little more twisted than most.

I shift on my feet, cringing at the sound my shoes make scraping across the gravel ground behind the large estate.

The waiting is the hardest, balancing at the precipice of something beautiful and transcendent while patiently biding my time until the perfect moment arises.

I’ve grown accustomed to having my needs met in an instant, and delaying my gratification while I hide in the shadows is the only part that hasn’t gotten easier with practice. And I’ve had a lot of practice.

I look down at the watch on my left wrist. Any minute now.

She always sneaks out this way to indulge in her dirty little habit after engaging in even filthier things upstairs.

A smile turns up the corner of my lips when I think of all the ways Satine Daubert has found herself tied up and used.

She’s rather a favorite here, which makes her a very naughty girl indeed.

The unmistakable crunch of stilettos stomping through the gravel sounds from the far side of the estate.

She’s nearly here. I duck into the cover of the roses climbing along the dark, stone walls, careful to mind the briars.

I see her far before she sees me—her brown eyes fixed on the faint light of the moon in the sky, my eyes latched only on her.

She’s beautiful, even if she is a complete wreck.

It’s clear she’s been handled roughly; her curly hair is askew, and there are black rings of mascara under her eyes.

She’s been crying, I realize, not that there’s any shortage of tears at this place.

Half the people here get off on inflicting pain and terror.

And the other half gets off on feeling it.

It’s a lovely little nightmare for everyone involved.

She digs into her tiny silver purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

She’s still crying, wet tracks fresh and warm against her prominent cheekbones.

Digging out a cigarette, she sucks the filter between her red, plump lips and attempts to flick on the lighter.

Her fingers tremble too much as she tries several times to get a light.

“Shit,” she gasps as the silver Zippo clatters to the ground.

Claiming the opportunity, I emerge from the shadows and stalk toward her.

She startles at my sudden approach, the cigarette falling from her open lips as she shrieks in surprise.

Her heart is beating faster; I can hear it in the still silence of the night.

She takes a step back as I bend down to retrieve her lighter from the ground and flip it on, drawing the flame close to my face.

It takes a small moment for recognition to flare in her dark eyes.

“Y-you,” she stammers, the word an accusation. The pretentious sound of it riles my rage.

“You’ve been a naughty little whore, Satine,” I answer, toying with the lighter as I flick it on and off.

She backs away until she trips over her heels and lands hard against the gravel, the tiny pebbles digging into her palms like pieces of glass.

Prowling toward her, I straddle her hips and sink to my knees, ignoring the way the rough ground stings my skin.

“I told you to stay away,” I hiss. I wave the lighter in front of her face so close it could singe her pretty eyelashes off. “Did you obey?”

“N-n-no.” She’s looking at me like I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But realizing she’s absolutely fucked won’t do anything to save her. In fact—I look down at her with a smile on my face—nothing will.

“You had better start praying, Satine,” I whisper, dragging my lips over the exposed skin of her neck. I stroke the Zippo down the side of her cheek before igniting it again. This time, the charred stench of scorched hair fills the air.

“Please, please, please,” she starts to plead as more tears fall down her cheeks. She fears me. More than those bastards upstairs. More than him . And I love it. Her terror makes me feel more alive than anything has in a long time.

“Shhh,” I hum, caressing her face with the lighter as I pull my true weapon of choice from my pocket. Cold steel—dependable and pristinely sharp. I grip the firm handle of the chef’s knife in my hand as a shiver of arousal ripples across my heated skin.

“Didn’t you know?” I slide the blade up the center of her body before slotting it against one of her ribs directly below her heart. Bending down low, I whisper the last words she’ll ever hear. “Naughty little whores deserve to burn.”

I set her clothes aflame a moment before driving the knife into her.

It slides between her ribs like a hot knife through butter and pierces her heart, the gruesome act smooth and silent.

She’s dead before she can even scream, flames ravaging her still warm corpse as the blood starts to pool and trickle down her ribcage.

She’ll be such a pretty addition to my collection.