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“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I spit back.
“You accused me of poisoning your breakfast. I ate it. I’m not dead.”
My gaze drops down to the tray, where coffee and milk has spilled on its surface from all that unnecessary jostling. I glance at Xero, who glares down at me like the angel of vengeance.
“If this tray isn’t clear by the time I return, there will be consequences.” He turns on his heel and walks toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Checking on the men I captured last night,” he says without sparing me a glance. “I need to know if they have any accomplices before I make you kill them.”
He disappears into the hallway, leaving me with my roiling thoughts.
SEVENTY-THREE
XERO
I should wring Amethyst’s neck, but she’d probably switch into that altered state again and take out my eye. My balls still throb from the pummeling she gave them whilst in the throes of her nightmare.
At least I understand why she lives so far away from her family and best friend. Amethyst Crowley is a time bomb with a faulty counter. She can hulk out when you least expect.
It makes me wonder if whoever’s out to kill her knows about these episodes. That’s the only reason they’d send a quartet of men after a small woman who lives alone.
After injecting the sedated intruders in the basement with a reversal agent, I secure their restraints and walk up the stairs. By now, Amethyst should have finished her breakfast or be prepared to face punishment.
Either option is fine. I owe her for what she did to my face. If I hadn’t caught her in time, she might have taken out my eye.
I walk into her bedroom, prepared for anything, including another attack. Ropes aren’t the most secure of restraints, but she was already exhausted by the time I managed to pin her to the bed.
She’s sitting up, resting her back against the headboard, looking breathtaking. Her face is a perfect oval, withlarge green eyes infused with flecks of gold, framed by thick black lashes that make her look like a doll. A pink flush colors her cheeks, matching the fullness of her lips. And the way her two-toned hair frames her face makes her look like the Norse goddess of death.
My gaze travels down the pink camisole that hugs her perfect breasts and skims the contour of her waist. The mere knowledge that beyond this pretty little exterior lies a monster is more than a man like me can resist.
When I ended up at the wrong house and discovered the extent of her deception, I thought everything about her was fraudulent. I wondered if the story about her music teacher had been a lie—until I saw her plunge that knife into her attacker’s neck.
Observing her reaction to being haunted was arousing, and tormenting her made me harder than I’d ever been before. I’m addicted to her terror, obsessed with her screams. I can’t get enough of my murderous little ghost.
“Are you just going to stand in that doorway like a stalker?” she asks.
“Did you eat your breakfast?”
“The cereal was soggy.”
“Whose fault was that?” I snap.
She tosses her head. “Yours for not reassuring me you weren’t a poisoning psycho.”
Bristling, I stalk toward my little ghost, causing her to shrink against the headboard. Her nipples tighten and push against the lace fabric, fueling my desire to tear it to pieces.
“Ready to face your punishment?” I ask.
Her pretty eyes widen. “What for?”
“You know why.” I swipe her phone to the floor, snatch the tray off her lap, and place it on the nightstand.
“But I ate the toast,” she says.
“Not good enough.”
