Page 32 of Wicked Nightmare

Thanks, Google. Real helpful. Tell me something I don't know, like where the fuck St. Agnes is and why my body breaks out in hives when I hear church bells.

"I'm so excited, Cam. If we find the place, there's bound to be information, right? They can't have had all of us girls there, without some kind of filing system. Some records of some kind. All those files, all that dirt on the bastards who made our lives a living nightmare. It's just sitting there, waiting for us to use it. Who knows? Maybe we will find some info on the whereabouts of the ones missing on the hit list."

Cam leaned back against the counter, his massive frame radiating that energy he got when the violence was close and the plan was forming. "And what exactly did you have in mind for all that information, sweetheart?"

My lips curled upward in a little smirk. "Oh, you know... a little blackmail here, some well-deserved vengeance there. Maybe we'll even burn the whole fucking place to the ground."

"As long as I can sink little Marie here—"he flicked his butterfly knife open and shut—"into the guts of the bastards who hurt my girl, I'll follow you anywhere."

"Marie?" I raised an eyebrow. "You named your knife Marie?"

"She's elegant. She deserved a name. Besides you named the cockroach under the fridge and the coffee maker."

"Yeah, that was cute because it was me. You doing it is weird."

"You zip-tied a man to our bathtub and twisted his nuts, but I'm the weird one for naming my knife."

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw stars. "Fine. Marie can come. But she has to share."

Chapter Eleven: Cam

A pleasant buzz hummed through my veins as Lakey glanced down at our clothes, spattered with crimson evidence of our latest indulgence.

"Well, this is a mess," she giggled, her light blue eyes bright with an innocence that had no business being on the face of a woman who'd just twisted a man's balls until he cried. But that was Lakey. She could do the worst things and look like she was narrating a children's show while doing them.

I couldn't help but smirk. Here we were, covered in the Rat King's blood, and she looked as carefree as if we'd just spilled ketchup on ourselves at a picnic. The casualness of it all was fucking hilarious.

"Think we should get these off and in the washer before it stains?" Lakey asked. "Blood's such a pain to get out of fabric, you know."

I nodded. "Wouldn't want to ruin our Sunday best," I drawled, setting down my empty bottle next to the sink and opening the drawer where we kept the washcloths. No rush, no panic. Just another night for Cam and Lakey.

As I rummaged through the drawer, I caught sight of my reflection in the stainless-steel vent. Dark eyes stared back at me, alive with satisfaction and hunger. The rush of the interrogation was still running through me, but a different kind of want was building. The kitchen sink ran hot as I pushed my hand through the water. I wet the towels and headed back into the living room.

I turned toward Lakes, washcloths in hand, drinking in the sight of her. The way the blood accentuated the curve of her neck, how it made the scar on her collarbone stand out. The one from Carmen's cigarette. The one I'd memorized the shape of years ago and could trace with my eyes closed. Christ, she was a work of art. Not the kind you find in museums behind velvet ropes. The kind you find in crime scene photos that make detectives quit.

"Your wish is my command, darlin'," I said, tossing her a cloth. "Let's get cleaned up."

She caught the washcloth. She slowly peeled off her blood-splattered top, revealing the scars across her torso. The surgical ones on her abdomen that she still couldn't explain. The cigarette burn. The thin white lines on her forearms that she'd stopped adding to years ago. Part of the missing pieces she needed to string together.

She turned and stripped off her leggings, wiggling her ass as they dropped to the floor. No underwear… my fuck.

"Like what you see, Cam?" she purred, trailing her fingertips down her body, pausing to squeeze on her small tits before pinching a nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

I didn't answer, just started stripping off my own clothes. As I wiped the blood from my chest, I noticed Lakey's gaze following my movements, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. She watched the way the cloth dragged over my tattoos, over her name inked across my chest, over the hearts she'd carved into my skin one drunken anniversary at a time. Her eyes tracked the cloth the way her eyes tracked everything. With total focus and zero subtlety.

"C'mere," I growled, closing the distance between us.

I ran the damp cloth along her collarbone, down her body. Each stroke was deliberate, slow. Lakey's breath hitched as I cleaned her, her skin rising in goosebumps under the wet fabric. I took my time with it. Traced the line of her ribs. Wiped the blood from the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered. Dragged the cloth down her stomach, over those scars, and watched her eyes go dark.

"You missed a spot," she whispered, guiding my hand lower.

My cock twitched in response. The room suddenly felt too small, too hot. I could feel the burn of desire building in my gut, my cock already straining for her.

Lakey must have sensed the shift because before I knew it, she was on her knees, looking up at me with those big eyes that were anything but innocent.

"Let me take care of you, Cam," she said.

I tangled my fingers in her hair as she took me in her mouth. Fuck, the sight of her like this. Her lips stretched around my cock, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes looking up at me through her lashes while Skeeter's blood on the bathroom tiles ten feet away. This was our bond, twisted and dark as it was.