Page 16 of Killer Bones

My large fingers gripping and denting her upper thigh are a perfect counterpoint to her vulnerability.

To her curves.

To her plump red lips that move the tiniest amount when she breathes.

I grit my teeth, release her, and stand.

Restraint has been my weapon and my shield ever since I started killing. Patience and restraint. One mistake could unravel me. I need to remember my story—I’m a businessman who just happened to find Montez’s favorite pest wandering the streets.

Except I let her figure out what I truly am and see the darkness in my soul. I was teasing her with it, seeding the conversation with clues. It’s fine to do that when I’m alone with someone due to die, to add some fear, but that was stupid.

She offered me power and her body. For us to unite. That she would find me the right victims? What is right when you’re executing them, leaving them in unmarked graves, on the street, or thrown into the sea? What the fuck can be right about it?

Most people would have simply begged me. No one wants to die. It’s an uninspired pitch.

She…fucking offered me a deal.

I walk out, shut the door. There is no lock, but if Montez’s men haven’t thought to tie her to the bed, that’s on them.

Another hour should be sufficient to let her wake enough.

Do I kill her?

I should smother her now. If she betrays me, we both die. They’d think it a side effect of the drug.

I keep walking. Montez is having a cocktail party on the upper deck. I can go watch his woman flaunt her breasts at me in her chic bikini and short skirt. Now she would beg if I had a gun to her head. I spend a second thinking about that before drifting back to how Izabella, Izzy—as she names herself in her posts—sprawls on that bed.

My dick hardens as I imagine her making noises.

While I do interesting things…

To her.

The sea is behaving itself. The sun glints off the green-blue waves while I souvenir a cocktail off a tray and smile at Montez and his mistress, Carmilla. She smiles back, her red hair pouring and slithering over her shoulders and back as she turns.

When we end up side-by-side, she whispers as if we are sharing a secret, “That was hot, what you did to her. I look forward to more of the same.”

I nod. “It will happen.”

“Good. Do you take requests?” Her eyes light up with hope.

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh.” She pouts. After a last lingering appraisal, she walks away. Her aquamarine skirt looks as if it’s cradling ripe fruit, as does her top.

Good, she says. Evil bitch. She would look good, bloody, and wriggling under my knife, but I would never catch her. That does make me think. Some people are too powerful. Some are like her, too connected or too public a figure.

I return to Izzy’s cabin within the hour. A man is on the bed with her, with his dick out. She’s weakly batting at him. An empty syringe lies on the small table.

“Okay, you.” The next few seconds happen in a hurry, loudly.

Shit. I shouldn’t have.

I stare at the floor where he lies on his back, gasping. He landed there after I hauled him off her and punched him into it, a few times. Once was to the throat—he wasn’t co-operating. His rasping is worrying, but he is improving.

Wiping my mouth, nursing a bruised hand, I climb off him and study the damage. “You can breathe.” I had four drinks, which isn’t enough to impair me. Or so I thought. “Sorry.”

I offer my hand. He knocks it away and staggers upright then goes to the door, spitting blood, wheezing.