Page 3 of Reaper's Hunt

The mattress is a slaughterhouse, a soaked, sagging, canvas of gore. I don’t care. It’s just a thing, disposable, like him. I climb off the bed, heart clutched tight in my hands, blood dripping a trail behind me as I bolt toward my bedroom.

My bare feet slap against the glazed porcelain tiles as I shove open my door, headed for my shrine. It’s a hidden closet along the wall, a long door with glass shelves holding all of the souls I’ve stolen over. The first three shelves are already a gallery of death, each jar holding a heart, suspended in a preservative I perfected from med school.

I run my fingers along the favorites, thinking back to men I’ve laid to waste—an abusive stepfather, a professor who wouldn’t keep his hands off of me, my parole officer because I just didn’t like him… It’s become something of an art, my own expression in antique little jars holding evil souls.

This guy is next, but I have to find the perfect piece of glass to enshrine him in.

My gaze falls on the lower shelves, empty jars staring back at me, and then I stop on one of them. A mermaid, her tail the handle, iridescent scales glittering in the dim light. An homage to the way he all but drowned in his own blood. Oh, I’m a fucking genius.

Selene

I’vebeensavingthatbeauty for a kill this sweet, and now that it’s finally here, I can barely contain my excitement. I scramble toward the jar, fumbling one bloody hand with it, the other clutching the heart to my chest. Blood is soaking through my shirt, staining the cotton, but that’s the least of my worries.

It’s the fact that my favorite lilac lace bra will be splotched with a man who’s not worth the time to scrub out the stains. And Ijustgot this set. Expensive as hell and it’ll take me at least another paycheck to grab another one.

The top soon comes off and I drop the heart inside, the organ landing with a soft plop, blood pooling at the bottom, still warm from his chest. “I’ll preserve it later,” I mutter to myself. Right now, it’s perfect. Well,mostlyperfect. The red swirls around the glass as I tilt it, watching the heart bob. Beautiful.Mine.

The next part’s less pretty—dragging a dead asshole out of my apartment and setting him up for the world to choke on. I step back into the hall after placing the jar in its rightful place and glance toward the guest bedroom. He’s still there, sprawled out, chest flayed, ribs a jagged ruin. A husk ready for display, just another step in my masterful craft asThe Reaper.

Where should I drop him this time? The alley behind the boutique’s too obvious, too close to my cover. The park’s tempting, letting joggers find him under the rising sun. I don’t work tonight, so a lovely night stroll could do it—dump him somewhere poetic, let Ashthorne County wake up to my handiwork.

But the planning will have to wait till later, my stomach interrupting the silence as it yells for me to feed it. “When’s the last time I ate?” I count and realize it’s been at least twelve hours, maybe longer. If I don’t eat something now, I’ll regret it later. Harley will just have to wait. The bastard will ridicule me the moment I step into the station anyway, an ex who never truly let go and was definitely one of the ones who thought they could fix me.

With a heavy sigh, I stomp back across the tile and into the kitchen, the bright light showing just how much of me has been soaked in this man’s blood. It’s crusted under my nails, streaked up my forearms, covering my shirt and the half top of my jeans. At least my crotch is dry or I’d have to filet that man just a little bit more.

I turn the faucet on, scrubbing at my hands and arms, red swirling down the drain. The river of crimson makes it look like my rose tattoo is actively bleeding: a living breathing thing as the remnants of this man’s life disappears into nothingness. I’m almost done when my phone vibrates on the counter. A frown takes over my face as I dry my hands on my ass, the only clean part of me, and then grab my phone. Dante’s name lights up the screen and then a text comes in a second later.

Bitch, where are you?

“Fuck.”

Childhood friend, ex-cop turned consultant, a nosy bastard who thinks he knows me. I scan the kitchen for a clock and I grimace, realizing I was supposed to meet Harley over an hour ago, but Dante is never far behind, clinging to work he supposedly retired from. And apparently, since I work at the boutique on the strip, they wanted to ask me a few questions about a murder that happened recently.

My fingers fly over the screen.

Hey, sorry, lost track of time, I’ll be there.

Don’t bother. I’m already here.

My eyes go wide, heart lurching in my chest from the sudden, electric jolt of oh-fuck. I spin, staring across the living room toward the guest bedroom. The door’s still open, carnage and blood-soaked bedding spilling into view, my art laid bare for anyone who steps into the living room. “Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, bolting toward it.

I slam the door shut, frantically looking around for anything and everything that I need to clean before this fucker steps into my apartment. There’s nothing in plain view until I look down at myself, and fuck, it’s bad.

There’s no explaining this, not to Dante, not to anyone. My grin falters, replaced by a groan as I peel off my shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin. The bra’s next, a lost cause. I toss them aside, then shimmy out of my jeans, sighing with relief when I find that my panties remain untouched. Thank fuck. I really like this set and knowing that half of it is still wearable is better than nothing.

Gathering up my clothes, making sure to keep them away from my chest, I dart to the washing machine beside the guest bedroom and stuff my clothes inside. There’s a multiple step process if I were to salvage the clothing but right now, I just need it out of sight.

That’s when I hear my front door creaking open, my pulse spiking as I glare at the entrance. I throw my arms across my chest, confused and a little terrified until I see Dante stepping inside, his dark eyes locking on mine before sliding down my nearly naked body. Heat prickles across my skin, panic trying to take over my rational thought.

I clear my throat, voice rougher than I would have liked. “Hi. Sorry I was late.”

He steps further inside, his dress shoes clicking against my tiled floor as the door shuts behind him, a deliberate click echoing in the silence. “What have I told you about locking your doors, kitten?” His voice is always so fucking smooth, like molasses and a melody had a baby. It sends a shiver down my spine as he pulls his gun from its holster, setting it on the counter with a soft thud. His fingers move to his sleeves, rolling them up, revealing forearms corded with muscle. The leather belt goes next, set beside his gun as well, like he’s settling in.

Like he lives here.

But I know better. He’s about to teach me a lesson and I’m a sick individual for wanting it.

Still, I have to play into the game to make him give me the rough side of him he hides so well. “Hey, wait,” I blurt, stepping back, my free arm still clutching my chest. “I just came—I just…” My eyes dart to the guest bedroom door, then snap back to him.

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