Page 20 of Only for Him
One more gift, one corpse closer to having her in full.
Someday, she will be beside me as I work, tongue wrapped around my ear and whispering instructions on how she wants me to hurt them for her in true justice.
I wipe my face with the hem of Ivan’s shirt, unlock the chains so the body slumps to the floor, and then cut his hands off at the wrist. The bones are slick, the muscle corded and stubborn, but they yield all the same.
I set the hands on the table, palm up, and arrange the fingers.
It takes twenty minutes to carve the message, slowly and carefully, so that each letter is legible. On his chest is my familiar greeting.
TO DETECTIVE CANTIANO.
On the hand is somethingmuchmore personal.
Something that she’ll understand:thisis what happens to men like Ivan. To anyone who thinks they can touch what belongs tome.
Stepping out into the night, I breathe deeply to fill my lungs with salt and cold and the faint sweetness of bakery yeast.
I need to see her, now.
With every step, my mind fills with thoughts of all the ways she’ll agree to be mine for the taking. My fingers flex at the thought of kneading the taut flesh of her thighs. My breath trembles in anticipation of her hot, breathy whimpers in my ear. My jaw hungers to leave marks on her creamy skin.
And my cock throbs at the thought of plunging into her again and again until she can’t live without it.
8
GISELLE
I checkbehind me three times before I reach my door.
The deadbolt slides home with an unsatisfying clunk. I double-check the windows, splash cold water on my face, twist Serena’s earrings, and let the sting anchor me before taking them off and dropping them into the swan-shaped jewelry dish beside the sink. It’s the only beautiful thing in this whole apartment.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, counting cracks and flecks of paint until my vision blurs. I try to focus on the facts, but the details won’t stick.
All I can see is my blue-eyed stalker.
The arrogance of his posture and the certainty of his smile.
I hate how it makes me feel. Not just the fear, but the pulse of something else. Something hot and low in my belly. Something that wants to meet his stare and not look away.
I can’t be feeling this. I’m not allowed.
He’s a killer. A murderer. And now, an obsession I can’t shake.
Eventually, sleep comes. Not the real kind, but a guttering half-dream and half-vigil. I’m in an endless labyrinth. All the signs are in Cyrillic. And every corridor is empty.
Except for his eyes hunting me in the dark.
In my dream, my feet move faster until I’m running. But it’s not fear that drives me. It’s the urge to catch him, and to let him catch me. And when he does, I want to feel his strong fingers digging into my flesh as he pulls me against his body. I want to taste the sear of his breath hot against my ear. Hear the dark laughter in his voice as he pushes me head down with one hand while the other starts tugging at my pants.
The sky isn’t even hinting at light when I snap awake, clutching the bedsheets like a lifeline while my heart detonates in my chest. There’s no noise. No movement.
Just a heavy silence.
But something’s wrong.
I know it the way an animal knows an earthquake is coming.
I reach for the pistol on the nightstand and slide from under the sheet in a single practiced motion until my feet land silently on the hardwood.
