Page 6 of Killer's Obsession
Suddenly, I’m back there. Back in my dorm room at the Art Institute. It’s the middle of the night, and rough hands are dragging me from my bed. A cloth over my mouth silences my cries for help?—
I squeeze my eyes closed.
No. I’m here. I’m safe.
My hands grip the windowsill, and I force myself to breathe.
Three things I can smell.
Killer’s Irish Spring body wash. Woodsmoke from the bonfire below. The vanilla-scented lotion Pinky gave me last week.
I force my eyes open.
Three things I can hear.
Ozzy’s voice drifting up from the beach. Bubbles laughing as Chilly carries her off into the shadows, and the sound his hand makes when it lands firmly on her backside.
My cheeks warm. I know exactly what they’re going to do. The sex is open here. Unashamed and unembarrassed.
“Pet?” Killer’s voice is closer now.
I look over my shoulder at him, and my breath catches in my throat.
God, he’s beautiful in the most terrifying way.
Six-foot-five of solid muscle, his coal-black faux hawk and those shocking blue eyes a stark contrast against his dark skin. His arms are works of art—both the muscles rippling beneath his skin and the tattoos covering them.
But it’s his hands that fascinate me most. So large they could easily break me, yet so gentle when he brushes the hair from my face or rubs my back after a nightmare. Always so careful with me.
Something twists in my stomach when he looks at me that way. Like I’m his.
It’s a feeling I’ve been trying to ignore, to push down deep where it can’t hurt me.
Because what kind of person am I to develop feelings for a man who literally goes by the name Killer? I saw the bodies, I know what the Saints did. I should be terrified of men like them—like him.
But I’m not.
And that’s what scares me most of all.
I push those thoughts away and walk back to the bed where I left the sketchbook. I sit on the edge as Killer kicks off his heavy boots.
He drops down in the spot beside me, his weight making the mattress dip. Picking up the sketchbook I was working in, he stares at the drawing.
The sketch is dark—a detailed image of Jack the Ripper walking down a cobblestone street at night, a single oil lantern casting his long shadow behind him.
Killer runs a tattooed finger across the paper. “It’s dark.”
“It’s at night,” I reply, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He shakes his head. “No. I mean the feeling behind it.” His eyes find mine. “What were you thinking about when you were drawing this?”
I turn my head away. I don’t want him to know what those animals did to me. I don’t wantanyoneto know. “Nothing.”
He grunts, unconvinced.
“Memphis—”
I turn back, and his icy blues are staring into me. He sees too much. He always does. Too much of the brokenness inside me.
