Page 16 of Her Name in Red
“You're bleeding,” she says, her voice soft and raspy, like she doesn't use it much.
I glance down at my knuckles, still dripping from the fight. “So are you.”
She looks down at herself, at the splatter pattern decorating her skin like abstract art. “Not my blood,” she says with a small shrug, like we're discussing the weather and not the deceased at our feet.
“We should probably get out of here,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. My eyes dart to the body, then back to her face. She hasn't moved, just watches me with those storm-cloud eyes that see too much.
“Probably,” she agrees, but makes no move to leave. Instead, she reaches out, her bloodstained fingers hovering just above my split knuckles. “Did you win at least?”
“Always do.” The words come out automatically, cocky, like I'm not standing over a corpse with a woman who just casually committed murder.
She smiles then, a small, crooked thing that doesn't reach her eyes but still manages to punch me in the gut. “Of course you do. Lucky number thirteen, undefeated.”
I snort, ignoring the way my skin burns where her gaze lands. “Nothing lucky about me.”
“No?” She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she can't quite figure out. “Why are you still standing here instead of running to the nearest police station?”
“Maybe I like the view.”
She laughs and steps over the body as casually as stepping over a puddle. Her heels click softly on the pavement as she moves toward me, each step deliberate and predatory. I should back away. Any sane person would. Instead, I stand my ground, watching the sway of her hips, the way the blood on her skin catches the light.
“Oopsie,” she says, her voice a mocking singsong that doesn't match the coldness in her eyes. “That's twice you've seen me doing something bad.” She stops just inches from me, close enough that I can smell her.
“However will your golden boy self handle it?”
“Golden boy? You've got the wrong guy, sweetheart.”
“Do I?” She reaches up, tracing one blood-flecked finger along the line of my jaw. It leaves a sticky trail in its wake, marking me. “Captain of the hockey team. College scholarship. All those adoring fans back there.” Her eyes flick toward the warehouse. “Everyone loves Riggs Rhodes.”
“They love what I can do,” I counter, catching her wrist before she can pull away. Her pulse flutters under my thumb like a trapped bird. “Not who I am.”
“And who are you, Riggs?” Maren's voice drops to a whisper, her breath warm against my skin. “Because the boy I met at freshman orientation wouldn't be standing in an alley with a killer.”
Her words hit me like a sucker punch. I tighten my grip on her wrist, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers. I could snap them if I wanted to. She could probably slit my throat before I even tried.
“You look like you want to kiss me,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Her free hand comes up to rest against my bare chest, right over my hammering heart. Her fingertips leave little blood prints on my skin, marking me ashers. “Do you want to kiss me, Riggs? Do you want to taste death?”
The way she says my name—like she's tasting it, savoring it—sends a shiver down my spine. I'm acutely aware of the cooling body just feet away, of the knife she's somehow made disappear, of the blood drying on both our skins. I should be disgusted. Terrified. Instead, I'm fucking mesmerized.
“Yes,” I say simply, because what's the point in lying? She can probably read it all over my face anyway.
Her laugh is soft and dangerous. “Even knowing what I am? What I've done?”
“Especially knowing what you are.” The words come out before I can stop them, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be. “You've been haunting me.”
Maren's eyes darken, pupils dilating until there's just a thin ring of gray surrounding them. She leans in closer, her body pressing against mine in all the right places. It makes my head swim.
“Obsession is dangerous,” she warns, but there's something like hunger in her voice. “I break things, Riggs. People. Lives. Mine included.”
“I break things too,” I say, my voice dropping to match hers. “Just usually on the ice.”
There's a flash of interest in her eyes.
“Hockey's a controlled violence,” she counters, tilting her head. Her dark hair falls across one eye, a curtain hiding half her expression. “Rules. Referees. Penalties.”
“You think I play by the rules?” I lean closer, close enough that our breaths mingle in the cold night air. “There's nothing controlled about what I do out there. Ask the guys I've put in the hospital.”
She makes a noise of acceptance, but the next words out of her mouth pull me right into her orbit once again.
