Page 15 of Her Name in Red
Declan's face fills my vision, his eyes blazing with anger. “You're fucking done,” he snarls, spittle flying. “Get the fuck out of my ring before I kill you in it.”
I blink, reality crashing back like a bucket of ice water. The roar of the crowd comes rushing in. The taste of copper floods my mouth, and I realize I've bitten my tongue. My knuckles throb, skin split and weeping.
I stumble backwards, nearly tripping over the ropes. As I duck out of the ring, my eyes frantically search the warehouse for Maren.
Finally, I see her as her lithe body and that fucking punk she’s with disappear out of the warehouse doors.
I don’t fucking think so, my little nightmare. You’re fucking mine. You wrote it in blood a year ago.
Chapter 6
Riggs
Stumbling away from the ring, I barely register the wild cheers and shocked faces surrounding me. My chest heaves, blood dripping from my split knuckles onto the concrete floor. So much for that fucking tape job badass Barbie gave me.
I scan the crowd frantically, searching for that flash of dark hair, those haunting eyes. The warehouse doors swing shut, and something primal clicks inside me.
Mine.
I spot Johnson leaning against a support beam, raising an eyebrow at me. I give him a quick nod to let him know I'll be back. He understands immediately, returning the nod with a slight tilt of his chin. No questions asked. That's what I like about him.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, ignoring the slaps on my back, the voices calling my name. My skin feels too tight, like there's something clawing to get out. Blood trickles down my forearm, but I barely notice. All I can think about is Maren and that fucker's hands on her.
My bare chest prickles with goosebumps, sweat cooling rapidly in the night breeze. I scan the area, squinting through the dim glow of the streetlights. There’s nothing. They've vanished.
“Fuck,” I spit, tasting copper and rage.
I start moving, circling the building, my sneakers crunching on gravel and broken glass.
I round the corner to the back of the warehouse and freeze. There, in a narrow alley between the main building and another smaller one, I see them. My blood runs cold, then hot, then cold again.
Maren stands with her back against the grimy brick wall, the guy looming over her. She's a vision in black and red—a crimson top that clings to her curves like a second skin, the color of fresh blood against her pale skin. Her legs seem to go on forever in those black fishnets, disappearing under a short black skirt that barely covers anything worth covering. Red heels that make her legs look like weapons, dangerous and deadly.
Her dark hair falls in messy waves around her face; even from here, I can see something in her eyes. Instead of just looking dead there is a gleam. It looks almost wild and untamed.
The guy has one hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other sliding up her thigh, pushing under that scrap of black fabric she calls a skirt. He's whispering something in her ear, his lips brushing against her skin in a way that makes my vision blur with rage.
I move before I realize what I'm doing, my boots silent on the damp pavement. Years of hockey have taught me to move quietly, efficiently, even when every cell in my body is screaming for violence.
I'm closing in, fists clenched so tight my knuckles are screaming, when something catches the dull glow of the moonlight.
Maren's hand moves in one fluid motion, like she's done this a thousand times before. There's no hesitation, no trembling—just pure, calculated violence. The knife appears from nowhere, a wicked little blade with a black handle that looks like it was made for her delicate fingers.
Before I can even process what's happening, she drives it straight into the guy's throat.
The sound is what gets me first—a wet, gurgling puncture as steel parts flesh and cartilage like it’s nothing. Then comes the blood, pulsing out in rhythmic spurts that paint Maren's pale skin in crimson constellations. It splashes across her top, but against the red fabric, you'd hardly notice if you weren't looking for it.
The guy's eyes go wide, his mouth working silently like a fish out of water. His hands fly to his throat, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the wound as blood seeps between them. He staggers backward, confusion giving way to terror as the realization hits him—he's already dead; his body just hasn't caught up yet.
Maren doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. She watches him with those stormy eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her blood-flecked lips. There's something almost tender in the way she observes his death throes, like she's savoring every second of his descent into oblivion.
The guy drops to his knees, a puppet with its strings cut. Blood bubbles from his lips, dark and thick in the dim light. His hands fall away from his throat, too weak now to even try to stem the flow. He pitches forward, face-first onto the filthy pavement, and then he's still.
Just like that. One minute he's alive, pawing at Maren like he has the right, and the next he's cooling meat on dirty concrete.
I should be horrified. Should be running for the hills. Should be doing anything but standing here with my dick getting hardin my shorts. But all I feel is a rush of something animalistic and possessive. My little nightmare is so much more dangerous than I ever imagined, and fuck if that doesn't make me want her even more.
Maren's eyes find mine across the alley, and there's no surprise there. She knew I was watching. Maybe she wanted me to see.
