Page 31 of Run, Little Rabbit

“Holy fuck, Angel,” he huffs against the back of my neck, and I feel his smile stretch wide against my skin. “You’re so fucking hot.”

I laugh and collapse beneath him. His softening cock slips out of me, and I feel his cum drip out of my hole.

“Mmm,” he hums as he scoops it up and pushes it back inside me. “That’s better.”

“So possessive.”

He scoops me into his arms, bridal style, and grins down at me. “Only with you, love.”

Chapter Thirteen

Echo

My arms ache where that blonde asshole hung my wrists from some glorified meat hook. My feet barely touch the ground, and the pins and needles are starting to become a real pain in my ass. My shoes have gone, and I swear to God, if they’re ruined, someone is going to lose a fucking hand. They’re my favourite pair of stilettos, and I actually think I’ll cry if they’ve been ruined. I know it’s silly, but they’re just so beautiful.And comfy. It’s so hard to find a comfy pair of high heels, and these just feel like wearing a pair of slippers.

IknewI shouldn’t have gone out, shouldn’t have left my pretty little gilded cage, but I needed to keep my society princess mask in place. It’s taken me years to perfect, and I wasn’t going to put it at risk for a little trip into enemy territory. Echo Nolan has always been my alibi; without her, I risk losing the Six Minute Killer, and I’d dread to think what would happen to me if I lost that.

I think about it sometimes, giving up the killing, and wonder whether I’d survive without it. Or whether it would drive me truly insane. Hopefully I’ll never have to find out. The world is full of people that deserve to die, and I’m going to get rid of them, one by one.

All my life I’ve been hidden away, like some dirty little secret, and I’m sick of it. Maybe I should just come clean over the whole Six Minute Killer thing. I scoff. Dad probably still wouldn’t believe me, even if I killed someone in front of him. He’s such a stubborn asshole.

I’d rather keep my serial killer side gig a secret than risk losing it because my ego couldn’t take Daddy’s chauvinistic tendencies anymore. I dread to think what would happen to me without that outlet.

It’s like an urge. An impulse. A sheer fuckingneedto cause damage and drama. Like breaking that guy’s nose. I really should have thought about that before swinging. I certainly wouldn’t be hung from a meat hook if I had.

But what can you do? Hindsight really is a merciless bitch.

The groan of a metal door sounds behind me, and footsteps reverberate off the concrete floor. I can’t see much, thanks to the single shaft of light I’m suspended in. Beyond that are shadows and loose shapes that I’d really rather not have clarity over.

The expensive-sounding shoes stop directly behind me, and I can feel him at my back. I take a deep breath through my nose since the tape still covers my mouth and count to ten. Not that it does anything to calm my heart down. The thing is going like the clappers.

“I should be pissed you broke my nose.”

His voice is just as smoky as I remember. A deep rumble that has my core clenching. I should be terrified, but there must be something wrong with me because I’m the complete opposite.

“But no one has ever broken my nose before.” He steps around me, walking until he faces me but stays just beyond the light. “It’s actually kind of amusing.”

Well, whoop-de-fucking-do. Aren’t I the lucky one? Let me go and shout it from the rooftops. Oh. Wait. I can’t do that because someone’s got megagged and hung from the fucking ceiling!

“Stare daggers at me all you want, princess. You’re staying there until I decide what to do with you.”

He takes a step towards me, and I get an eyeful of my handiwork. Black circles sit beneath his eyes, and a little white steri-strip sits on the bridge of his nose.

My dad would be proud of me.

The guy’s still as handsome as fuck, maybe even more so now he’s a little damaged. He’s lost the mask from earlier, and a bolt of recognition flies through me. I’d know that face anywhere, even with the bruising.

Maxim Volkov. In the flesh.

He’s in a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing drool-worthy forearms. Dark lines and shapes cover his skin, and I’m curious to know what tattoos he’s got. If his forearms are covered, I bet he’s got more ink hidden beneath that expensive white cotton.

His face is sharp, with angled cheekbones and a square jaw, but he exudes a sense of humour that wasn't there when we first met. Which makes him more attractive.Fucking bastard.

I wonder what he’s like in bed.

Feral, probably, judging by the wicked gleam in his eye.

I’d bet he’d pound me into the mattress and leave my body broken and ruined for all other men.

---