Page 36 of Reckless
“Sorry about Markus,” she was busy saying. “He’s…well, he’s a Scott, so he’s never been smooth around the edges.”
“That seems to be an understatement,” I muttered, causing those peculiar eyes to snap to me as we walked along.
“You did better than most,” she said. A ghost of a smile crossed her face as she added, “You’re fiery. I’m glad Vaughn finally found someone who makes him feel alive. It sucks to live while not really living.” The way she spoke, it was as if she knew it from first-hand experience. It sounded like she’d joined the family after falling in love with a Scott.
Not a family I’d ever want to join, even if I did have feelings for one of them.
I said nothing, and we finally stopped before a closed door. My eyebrows went together, and it was as Stella’s face turned to meet mine that I was hit with a memory. Mom and I, in our old house, eating some microwaved dinner in front of the TV. Mom always had to turn on the news, at least the local parts. A picture of someone who looked just like Stella…and a red-headed guy?
I had to say, “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”
Stella smiled softly. “It’s the eyes, huh? The eyes always get people. It’s why I never leave the house, not really. If I do, I have to wear sunglasses to cover them.” She nodded once as she said, “If you watched the news a few years back, I’m sure you saw me. Killian and I, I mean. They still think I was his accomplice, somehow. His muse, and maybe I was, but I didn’t realize it at the time.” She made a soft humming sound. “It’s strange how the truth can change what you feel, isn’t it?”
His accomplice? His muse? What was she…
And then, like magic in my brain, it clicked. The Angel Maker. The serial killer that went off the grid after a few very public displayed kills. Stella was the woman they sought in connection to him, but they’d both fallen off the grid, and after a while, a new story took its place. Right before a missing white rich girl suddenly showed up back home.
“Fuck.” I thought I said it in my head, but I must’ve said it aloud, for Stella chuckled.
“Just know that this family isn’t like any other,” she said. “Markus isn’t the only one here who gets his hands dirty.” With an unnerving smile on her face, she reached to the door and knocked. Vaughn answered within a minute, and Stella said, “Don’t worry. I saved your girl from Markus. She’s smart. I like her.” And then she walked away, disappearing down the hall and leaving me to wonder what the fuck I got myself into with Vaughn.
Killers. This was a family of killers. And not only that, but there was a high profile serial killer here, too. Suddenly oh, my God did not quite hit the mark of how I was feeling.
I was slow to meet Vaughn’s dark stare, and the moment he invited me into his room, I practically ran in. Once the door was closed, I took in the state of the room. Giant, of course. Full of empty walls and new wooden furniture. The messiest part of it all was his desk, where it looked like he did his homework.
I felt Vaughn’s hand lightly touch my lower back, and I turned to meet those warm eyes.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you more about Markus,” he said. “He ordered me not to.”
Right. And what Markus said was law.
We all knew how I felt about Markus, but what I really wanted to talk about was what I’d just learned. “Dude, just give me a ballpark number, okay? How many serial killers are living under this roof?” I meant it as a joke, but also seriously.
Because, for real, what the hell did I get into here?
Chapter Eleven – Vaughn
I didn’t answer Jaz’s question about how many serial killers lived in my family’s estate. The answer depended on how you defined what a serial killer was, I supposed. All of my brothers had blood on their hands, some more than others. Some got a thrill out of what they did, while others simply kept their mouths shut because it was their job, their duty, what they were meant to do since they were born a Scott or adopted into the family.
When you got technical, we weren’t serial killers—although we did have one particularly high profile serial killer here now. We were simply contracted to do what we did, our patrons wealthy and usually with grudges.
Money came and money went. Corporations and ideas rose and fell constantly with the tide. What would never change was the fact that in the great wide world, someone would always want someone else dead.
Staring at Jaz, I couldn’t help but feel like she was out of place here. She didn’t belong with my bloodthirsty family, and yet here she was, eager to come here for me, to be with me.
She looked more beautiful than I remembered her being, her long black hair a bit wavy as it tumbled over her shoulders. She wore tight black leggings, along with a black and white shirt whose top few buttons were already undone, revealing her collarbone and the smooth plane of her upper chest.
I never knew how easy it could be, to lose yourself in someone else, to let the obsession take over until all you wanted to do was protect and claim. I’d never been like my brothers in that respect; they were much more bull-headed than I was when it came to thinking with what hung between their legs. Me? Before Jaz, I hardly felt anything at all.
As I watched her, those dark eyes seemed to dance. Jaz took a step toward me, a smile erupting on her pretty face, those full, luscious lips curling slowly. “I knew your family was into some shit, but not that kind of shit. I’m glad I called Jacob off—although Markus did just threaten him, and me, so if I wind up dead, it’s either your brother or whoever’s trying to pin Brittany’s murder on me.” She spoke flippantly, but I knew, deep down, she was worried.
I reached for her, my hands grazing her cheeks, my fingers finding her hair and tangling in it. The tattoos on my knuckles, hate and pain, looked so out of place as I held onto her. Like I didn’t deserve her beauty, her body, Jaz in her entirety. Like I would never be good enough to belong with her.
I’d called her to invite her here so that we could possibly, finally, cross the barrier between our bodies, but as I looked at her, as I remembered her question about the serial killers and listened to her remarks about Markus threatening her and her private investigator, I knew I had to tell her the truth.
Some of my brothers might take to lying to hide the truth from their obsessions, but I wouldn’t. I refused to. I had no idea whether this would last beyond graduation or not, but I knew I had to tell her what I’d done.
“Jaz,” I whispered her name, as always loving how it tasted on my tongue, “there’s something I have to tell you.” Sluggishly pulling away from her, I led us to my bed, and we both sat gingerly on its edge.
