Her body, skinnier than what I like, looks far more sensually curved with her bare breasts thrust forward and her arms pulled back. Her vulnerability overwhelms me—a gift, wrapped in ribbon and set before me. Tender and delicate. In so much pain . . .
The girl makes weak pleading sounds from behind the tape.
She’s begging for help . . . from the one person who won’t give it to her.
I see the confusion in her eyes.
Then, as I stand there watching, hands tucked in my pockets . . . deep disappointment.
I know what Alastor is trying to do.
I cut him too deep when I insulted him, when I called him undisciplined. He’s trying to humiliate me in return. Trying to prove that I’m no better.
He knows that his lust weakens him. He thinks this girl will tempt me in the same way.
I don’t kill on impulse. I prepare my location. And I never lose control.
He hopes I’ll break all three rules.
I’ll admit, this girl is a hundred times more appealing to me in this moment than she was at the show. She looks delicate and luminous, her flesh so tender that it would bruise at the slightest touch. The clean lines of her naked limbs, twisted and bound, call out for rearrangement . . .
I’ve never killed a woman. I assumed I would at some point, but not some skinny girl, and not in some frenzy of fucking and stabbing like that ghoul Shaw.
I don’t even torture my subjects like this. Meticulous preparation has always been the foreplay for me.
Now an endless flow of possibilities pass through my mind, like a new door just opened inside my brain.
What I could do to her . . .
What I could make her feel . . .
Blood rushes through my veins, every nerve sparking to life.
For a moment Alastor’s plan succeeds. I am tempted . . .
Then I slam that door shut.
I’m not killing this girl.
Even if I dispatched her in the most dispassionate manner possible, it would still create a perverse bond between Alastor and me, something I’ve continuously refused.
I won’t give Alastor what he wants. Not after he intruded on my sacred space.
He’ll be punished, not rewarded.
Which leaves only two options.
I could play the hero, save the girl.
That would cause all kinds of unwanted complications. She’s seen my face—and who knows what she’s seen of Shaw. She could lead the cops back here.
The other option is to simply . . . walk right by.
Alastor slashed her deep, and the night is cold. We’re miles from civilization. She’ll bleed to death on the path. Then it’s up to Alastor to pick up his own trash.
I don’t like the loose ends. If someone finds her body, if the police come poking around, we’re only a mile from my dumping ground.
But the mine is well hidden, not marked on any map.
The only way to win this particular game is to refuse to play. That’s what will enrage Shaw the most.
So I take one last glance at the girl’s beautifully tortured body.
Then I step over her and carry on my way.
4
Mara
I lay on the ground, my entire body throbbing, burning, slashed, and bruised. Some of the hurts flare up in acute agony—my jaw is particularly painful from its collision with the ground. The rest of me feels so heavy that I might as well be trapped inside a cement suit. I’m weighed down, compressed by it. For the first time in my life, I understand why it might be a relief to allow the soul to slip from the body. Pain overrides my fear.
I know I’m bleeding from my wrists, but I can hardly feel it, and that scares me worse than anything.
I’m getting colder and colder.
I hear footsteps coming up the path and I stiffen, thinking that this fucking psychopath has returned. He pretended to leave just to fuck with me.
But there’s something different in the stride.
The man who brought me here walked heavily. These steps are so light, so subtle, that for a moment I think I’m imagining them. Hope flutters up in my chest, thinking it might be someone else, maybe even a woman . . .
Then I turn and I see death himself come to claim me.
The man is tall, slim, and dark.
He’s wearing a black suit, flawlessly tailored, incongruous in this barren place. It stands out starkly against the pale flesh of his throat and hands. His black hair, thick and lustrous, frames the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
An artist is always looking at ratios and proportions.
His dark, almond-shaped eyes, the straight slashes of his brows, the line of his nose, the high cheekbones and razor-fine jaw, all relieved by the flawless curve of his lips—I’ve never seen such perfect balance.