Page 157 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

He ignores my disdainful glare and, somehow without letting go of my hand for more than a second, slips his jacket off, leaving him in the thick hoodie he’s wearing underneath. Deftly, Larkin pushes the jacket over my shoulders, leaving me to decide if I want to actually put my arms in the sleeves, though he does button it over my collarbone like a cape with just the top button of the heavy sweater fabric.

It’s warm.

But then again, so is his hand. He seems to always be warm, even though it’s still winter in Seattle and the temperatures get down low enough to freeze at night. Even in his hoodie, he doesn’t seem to notice the weather, and he easily weaves through the people on the street, barely ever touching anyone, and making it look like he’s swimming smoothly with the current.

This isn’t what killers look like.

At least, it’s not what the killers I’ve known look like. Cass may be graceful and attractive, but he isn’t like this. Larkin is different, though I can’t quite figure out why.

God, I want to end his fucking life. My fingers itch to lunge for the box cutter I know he has in his pocket, but even I’m not dumb enough to start shit in public.

A small sound of surprise escapes my lips when Larkin suddenly turns, dragging us through the parking lot of a restaurant set back a little from the street. I continue to stumble after him, and I catch a look of delight in his gaze when he glances back my way.

Fucking jerk.

“Keep up,” Larkin tsks, slowing down for the first time. It’s only for a moment, and probably just for show as he throws his arm over my shoulders to steer me through the double doors of the mystery establishment.

It isn’t a chain restaurant, but I’d put the vibe of Cider House Grill on par with something like Longhorn. The smell hits me when we walk in, and I inhale the scent of steak and spices that even I could handle. My stomach twists greedily, making me realize I haven’t eaten since before the sun was up this morning. And even that was just a pathetic protein bar that I ate in bed while checking my phone and doomscrolling on social media.

“Why are we here?” I hiss under my breath, with Larkin’s arm like a weight keeping me from really going anywhere.

“We’re on a date, silly girl,” he coos, making me roll my eyes up at the ceiling. God, I hate this man, though sometimes I almost forget that when the fascination and interest gets going in my veins. There are so many things I want to ask him. So many questions and comments and just…observations.

If he really is the PNW serial killer, then I want to pick his brain until he’s just a pile of bones. I want to know how he does it.

I want to know how I could do it too.

The thought jerks me back to reality, but thankfully the hostess appears with a big smile on her face. She studies Larkin before noting his arm draped over me possessively, and her smile becomes just a little less dazzling.

“Two,” Larkin tells her, holding up two fingers on the hand over my shoulders. “Just my girlfriend and me tonight.” My head tilts slightly at the words, but I only give the waitress my own withering smile.

She nods her head, welcoming us, and Larkin has the audacity to make small talk with her as she walks us through the atmospheric and well-designed building. Honestly, I feel like this used to be a chain restaurant. From the layout to the lighting, it just feels so…efficient. Not so small business-y as other restaurants around here that were built from the ground up by optimistic entrepreneurs who are usually doomed to have their dreams crushed only a few years after opening.

Oh well.

But I’m not complaining. Not as she seats us at a booth in the far corner, where I slide onto the vinyl seat across from Larkin and keep my eyes on his. He smiles the whole time and grins sweetly at the hostess when she sets down our menus and utensil bundles on the dark green table.

“Thank you so much,” he tells her as she turns to walk away, and before I can do anything, he hooks one leg around mine under the table, jerking me to the edge of my seat. “Now”—when he looks at me, his smile is a lot less warm and a lot less friendly—“let’s set some ground rules. Shall we, Tova? No stabbing in public. No screaming. No making a scene. I like this place, and I want to keep coming here. Can you follow those rules for me?” he purrs in an infuriatingly placating and condescending tone.

“What’s in it for me, exactly?” I demand, running my fingers over the textured exterior of the faux-leather-bound menu. “Other than a lack of entertainment?”

His grin widens. “I’m so happy you asked.” Leaning forward across the table, his leg loosens enough so I can sit up normally on my side of the booth. “If you can keep yourself under control and not act like a silly little girl who likes to play the monster…”

God, I hate this man.

“Then I won’t kill your roommate.”

His velvety soft words take a few moments to process between my ears. My unfriendly smile fades, as my fingers go cold and still on the table.

“What did you just say?” I whisper, heart pounding in my ears. “Did you⁠—”

“I don’t think I need to repeat myself.” He sits up fully, releasing my leg and picking up his menu. “Have you been here before?”

Glancing around, I look at the atmosphere, from the early 2000s stained glass lamps over the table to the wait staff wearing more formal uniforms than they really need to in a place like this. The menu is a bit dated, but nice, and I run my fingers over it again as I shake my head. “Nah. Have you?”

“Nope.” He enunciates the word and flips through the thick laminated sheets. “But it looks like a pretty good place for a date.”

“This isn’t a date.”