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I grasp the edge of the veil and lift it. My movements are slow and tender, a mockery of what a groom’s should be. Once again, she surprises me. She doesn’t fight me, doesn’t slap my hand away. She holds still, her chest moving faster in her tight bodice.
She has the loveliest eyes, dark and velvety. She’s striking rather than pretty, her jaw narrow but strong, and her nose sharp as a stiletto. Her makeup is subtle and perfect, except for those bold, blood-red lips. Not a hair of her sleek updo is out of place. For a witness to a knifing and a victim of kidnapping, she’s the very picture of calm.
I want to crack her apart. I killed her groom in front of her, and she made no sound. I thought she was in shock at first, but she’s remained calm.
Who is she? I researched the wedding but focused more on the layout of the church. The target was a civilian, a nobody. At first glance, his wife-to-be and guests were the same.
But this woman who wears a mini knife around her neck is more than who she seems.
I relax in my seat, letting her speak first. The car turns down an alley, weaving through the city and making its way east.
“Why?” she finally asks.
I cock my head. “Why what?”
“Why did you kill him?”
“It was a job. Nothing personal.” A disappointing target, who didn’t even fight back.
She snorts. “A knife to the heart? A bullet would have been easier.”
My brows raise. With each passing moment, she’s proving herself an enigma. Is she dangerous, like me? I hope so. Conquering her will be the sweetest challenge.
“I prefer a blade. It’s more intimate. Respectful.” I pat my jacket lining, where my preferred killing knife is secured.
“So you’re a psychopath.”
My gut kicks with an unexpected laugh. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
“I guess it’s useful in your line of work.”
“My line of work?”
“You’re a hitman. You said it wasn’t personal.” She sounds impatient, as if she knows I’m being deliberately obtuse.
I was prepared for hysterics. Messy tears, blotchy skin, panicked thrashing. Even a mafia princess would lose her cool and make threats or pleas for her life.
Her controlled reactions are unexpected and so much more delicious.
“And what about you? I killed your groom in front of you.”
“I’m in shock.” She does not sound like she’s in shock. She sounds like I interrupted her lunch.
What will she look like with her lipstick smeared from my kisses, her hair wild?
Soon I will know. My groin tightens at the thought. The monster in me roars, ready to roam free. I keep him leashed a little longer. My prey is close beside me but still wary. I want her fiery and fighting, as desperate for me as I am for her.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sample a bride on her wedding day. To touch her, feast on her, make her moan. My work offers me many depraved delights, but I’ve never experienced this one.
But now I have the chance. The fact that this bride might hate me only tempts me more.
I seduce her, on her wedding night, mere hours after slaughtering her betrothed.
And I will make her enjoy it.
Her veil tumbles over her brow, and she shoves it up again. I brush her hand away. Slowly, carefully, I remove each hairpin, holding her gaze.
After three pins, she looks out her window, but the red staining her olive cheeks isn’t from her makeup. Finally, a reaction.
