Page 18 of The Ecstasy of Sin

And I want it. The ache to kill is a constant buzz of hunger that lives under my skin, a monstrosity that derives immense pleasure from fear, from the fight a victim gives me, and from taking someone’s life when they desperately want to live.

He catches his mistake, although far too late, stuttering incoherently. The words tumble from his lips like verbal vomit. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lifts both hands in a placating gesture as my gaze narrows on him. “I’m sorry, Dominic. I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Kael.”

I stare at him, silent and still, letting him suffer under the pressure of my attention, before I lift a brow in amusement.

He backs away, and I track the movement as he leaves the room and heads into the pharmacy tucked behind the clinic.

There are a lot of people that would miss him if I took his life tonight, but that’s not what stops me. His usefulness is the only thing that does.

Shaking off the red-stained daydream, I glance over at the clock on the wall just as I hear a chime ring out from the front of the clinic.

Someone just walked in.

Dr. Denton lives upstairs in the apartment above the clinic, making him available nearly twenty-four seven to anyone with enough cash. His wife normally handles the front desk, but she’s down with the flu. At least, that’s what he told me whenI arrived earlier.

Someone’s moving around out there, clumsy and off-balance. The walls in this place are thinner than they should be, but Dr. Denton never overlaps appointments. It’s far too risky, letting criminals cross paths in a space this small.

It’s smart. We both know what kind of deranged people slither through the underbelly of Toronto.

Whoever is out there is now rattling the doorknob with a desperation that sharpens my focus. In an instant, I’m sliding off the exam table with practiced silence, my hand finding the leather wrapped hilt of the knife strapped across my lower back.

I flip the lock and twist the door handle. To my surprise, it’s a woman that falls through the door and slams into my chest with a startled little squeak.

My hand abandons my dagger, and I reach out to steady her. Her skin’s chilled, her limbs trembling from more than just the night air.

When she lifts her unfocused gaze to look at who she just crashed into, my heart kicks in my chest.

Her big, brown, doe-like eyes are bloodshot and glossy, her face tense from what I instantly recognize as profound physical agony. She’s suffering, and it calls to me like the wailing of a siren song.

I’m wide awake now.

She’s beautiful, and it’s not just those stunning dark honey coloured eyes of hers. Her heart shaped face is soft and feminine, framed by a cascade of dark brown hair that looks like silk even in this harsh lighting. I can see a few tangles, and my fingers itch to tug at them.

Her mouth—slightly parted, full and divinely shaped, is like something carved onto the face of a fallen angel.

And yet it’s the bone-deep suffering reflected in her pretty eyes that hooks me.

It hits like that first dose of heroine, and the beast in me stirs in recognition. Hunger awakens deep in my body, tempered by something worse: addiction.

I inhale deeply, and the faint scent of rain and sweat, sweetened by vanilla, infiltrates my senses.

Her knees buckle, and I instinctively pull her much smaller body against me to stabilize her and keep her on her feet.

The graceful hands she lays on my biceps are cold to the touch. I ignore the traces of dirt beneath her nails, and the leaf trapped in her hair. She’s a perfect, aching little creature in my cruel hands, and the sickness in me responds to her vulnerability and pain like it’s hard-wired to do—whether I want it to or not.

She sighs deeply, the sound a tumultuous blend of pain and relief, and her features soften just for a moment. Like being in my arms has given her the safety she’s been chasing.

Like I’m the cure to whatever ails her.

Which is insane… but lunacy is a language I understand better than most.

For the first time in decades, I’m holding someone broken, and I’m not the reason why. Her pain wasn’t put there by my hands, and her agony won’t end with me taking her life.

I can’t remember the last time I willingly touched a stranger, and it didn’t end in death.

She looks at me like I can stop her pain, not deepen it. Like I’m not a dysfunctional monster capable of bringing it to a brutal crescendo and giving her hard-earned peace.

And that fucks with me.