Archie sniffs, not the slightest bit of remorse reflecting in his cold eyes. The narcissistic assholes never are. Somehow, they twist it in their head that the victim deserved it and whatever injuries inflicted upon them were their own fault.
“She was cheating on me,” he replies petulantly. Pouting like a child that didn’t get a birthday cake.
“Did you cheat on her first?”
“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps back. “She’s the wife and I make the money. If I feel like buying a stripper for a night, that’s my goddamn right. All she ever did was sit at home on her lazy ass and spend my money.”
I nod, accepting his answer for what it is.
“Would you have hurt Addie?” I ask after a pregnant pause.
He scoffs. “I would’ve fucked her how I like to fuck. If she ends up with a couple of bruises, so what? Bitches like that shit. They like it rough.”
Renewed anger punches me in the chest. And it takes all my self-control not to plunge this screwdriver in his eye right then and there.
Archie wouldn’t know how to have proper rough sex if he was given a fucking manual for it. He hurts women because he enjoys it. He doesn’t know how to push women to the edge of pain and pleasure, balancing between the two and making them desperate for more.
He just hurts them. By the time he’s done, the girl is thoroughly bruised and traumatized—maybe even bleeding. And he’s walking away with a satisfied smirk on his face, as if he was the first man to prove a woman orgasming isn’t actually a myth.
“You didn’t hurt Addie,” I observe, waiting for the answer I know he’ll give. He isn’t desperate enough yet—scared enough. He’s still attempting to put on a false bravado act and die with dignity. But that will change very soon.
He smirks. “You gotta relax them first. The plans I had for her…” he trails off, licking his lips vulgarly. “Her cries would’ve been such a beautiful song.”
Again, I nod my head in acceptance of the answer. I accept it because it fuels exactly what I have planned for him.
And I’m very much going to embody his method for sex. I will enjoy hurting him and making him bleed, and him? He will wish he had never met Adeline Reilly.
Chapter 10
The Manipulator
“H
ave you heard anything?” I interrogate, my phone growing slick from the persistent anxiety since Arch went missing from my doorstep.
“No one has been able to locate him,” Daya answers through the phone. She’s been looking into Arch’s disappearance herself since I told her what happened last night, never one to rely on the police to solve anything.
But Daya doesn’t have much to go off of. She hacked into Arch’s known enemy’s systems—their cameras, phones, laptops, and the GPS on their cars. Just like we suspected, they had no connection to Arch’s disappearance—at least not that we could find.
It was my shadow who took him. And without having any idea who he is, there’s really no way to find Arch.
“I can’t believe this is happening. I practically got this man killed,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes.
“Babe, I hate to say this, but I don’t think that’s the worst thing that could’ve happened. I think this guy would’ve really hurt you. The things he did to his ex-wife… they’re unspeakable. He wasn’t a good man. None of those guys were…” she trails off, and I don’t need her words to know she’s thinking about Luke.
She said they had an incredible night together, but she ghosted him the second she found out what kind of guy Arch is—was.
She said anyone who is friends with a man like Arch isn’t a nice man themselves.
Can’t really disagree with that, either.
I take a deep breath. “I know, you’re right. I guess I just don’t like that he was hurt—maybe killed—because of me. I would’ve much preferred one of his many enemies caught up with him.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been the best-case scenario,” she allows.
“The best-case scenario would’ve been a wild night of hot sex with a hot guy where I orgasm multiple times and then send him off on his merry way,” I interrupt.
She pauses a beat before saying, “Yeah, you’re right. But that’s not what would’ve happened. Not with this guy’s history. He’s violent.”
“Well, apparently, so is my stalker.”
“I know, which is why I’m hooking you up with a security system. You’re not going to be another statistic, not more than you already are. If you die, I have to follow, and I’m quite attached to my body. God gave me a good one this lifetime.”
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, especially because she’s not even religious.
“Okay, just bill me for it,” I agree. I like the idea of having cameras in my house. It makes me feel better about someone sneaking around when I can’t see them.
“I’ll be over later to set them up.”
Getting cameras will be the first thing to happen in a month that gives me any semblance of safety. No matter how fragile it is.
I’m just finishing up another chapter when I hear the USPS truck pull up. The mailman has always been a pretty nice guy. He doesn’t stick around long and spends most of his time glancing around nervously.
The last time I asked him about it, he said something evil happened here.
And since a man went missing off my doorstep last night, I'd say several evil things have happened here.
I open the door just as he’s dropping off several cases of books. I have to sign these and get them shipped out to my readers.
Eight large boxes later, the mailman is panting, sweat running down his light brown face.
“Thank you, Pedro. Sorry for all the boxes,” I say, waving awkwardly.
He waves a hand in acknowledgment before getting back in his truck and shooting off.
I sigh, staring at the boxes with a look of dread. These are going to be a bitch to haul in. I step out, but my foot knocks into the corner of something heavy.
Looking down, I notice a small, lidded cardboard box. There's no shipping label on it, which means Pedro didn't drop this one off.
My heart plummets, a burst of anxiety hitting me right in the gut.
I don’t know why, but my eyes dart towards the woods as if I’m actually going to see someone standing there. I don’t. Of course, I don’t.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pick up the box. And then nearly drop it when I see a smear of blood where the box was sitting.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. God? Please don’t allow this to happen to me on this fine Sunday morning. Please let me not find what I think I’m going to find,” I pray out loud, my voice cracking as a drop of blood lands on my toe.
Hands shaking, I set the box back down and just panic. There’s a drop of blood on my toe. I knew there was blood on my hands already, but now my toes? I can’t take this.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I tip the lid off with my foot.
Hands.
Severed hands are in the box, just like I feared.
“Oh, fuck me. Fuck this shit.”
I twirl and run back in the house, scrambling to find my phone to call Daya.
The line rings for all of two seconds before she answers.