Page 49 of His Dark Vices

"What?!" I call out into the dark, annoyed to be ripped out of sleep.

The room spins as I open my eyes. I must have been sleeping hard. I look around the bed, take in the small room, the patch of light on the ceiling from the street light outside.

I'm in my own room, that's right. Sam isn't here. I left him at his penthouse—he said he had some things to take care of but that he would be in touch with me soon. And we'd be able to talk.

He kissed me goodbye, sweetly. I still remember how his lips felt.

Vrrm-vrrm. Vrrm-vrrm.

Right, that's what woke me up.

I slap around my bed until I find my phone, first squinting at the time because I know damn well it's too fucking late to get my phone blown up like this. 4:30 a.m. I frown and unlock it, already unwilling to forgive whoever it is.

"Danica… shit, Danica!"

I forgot to text her back yesterday. The thing with Sam took over my mind completely. I forgot to talk to him about his parents. But at the same time, the timing seemed bad.

I groan and sit up straight, pulling myself out of sleep. She's sent me several texts. My heart starts racing—am I fired? I read through them quickly until I get the gist, and something cold and sick settles in my stomach.

There's no way I'm reading this right.

I read them again, slowly, distantly trying to figure out if I'm dreaming or not at the same time.

Danica isn't mad at me for not texting her back about the story. In fact, it's a good thing that I didn't because a new story just dropped, a better one, better than anything I would have come up with.

A billionaire's parents were just found dead in a hotel. Danica wants me to start writing the story immediately, as soon as I see her message.

Vrrm-vrrm. Vrrm-vrrm.

Her next message almost makes me drop the phone as it starts vibrating in my hand. It's the casual way she brings up the billionaire's name, like my world hasn't just fallen apart.

Know anything about Sam Green?

CHAPTER 18

Sam

My parents are dead, Merry Christmas to me.

I'm a shadow prowling the streets, my black beanie pulled low on my head, concealing as much of my face as possible. Reporters won't leave me alone since the police called me to identify the bodies. Everyone knows, and now they want to know what happened, how I feel. What's going through my mind.

In my gloves, my hands squeeze into fists and shove deeper into the pockets of my coat, my shoulders instinctively hunching away from the rapid-fire questions still echoing in my ears. They try to fucking shove their microphones into my mouth, wanting the words out of my throat, any words. They want me to cry, spill my guts on camera.

But they don't suspect I killed them.

I don't know where my feet are taking me, and I don't care, as long as they take me away. Away from the noise of the city, from the parasites who want to feed on me, away from it all.

I just keep walking.

The further I get, the more my mind starts to unravel, loosen up. Getting the police call, seeing them dead—cold, with their mouths finally fucking shut for once—it turned me into steel. But now, in the frigid night, with no one's eyes on me, I'm starting to get an idea of what's going on inside me.

I wanted this. I wanted it to happen, that's the thought that keeps stabbing a finger at me. Of course I did. When I planted the booze in the hotel room I got them—good shit, something that could pass as a nice gift from a dutiful son—I had hoped they wouldn't be able to control themselves. Thoughts of them drinking themselves to death was all that filled my head.

Until Bree came over.

That's why I made her leave. I didn't want her to see the darkness in my eyes, the lust for death. I stayed up until I got the call, but I didn't know what it would do to me to get the news.

They're gone, really gone this time.

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