Page 260 of The Night Shift
“Good boy.” I smile and kiss his neck.
I make him come two more times after that. And since everything is a competition with Theo, he makes it his mission to drag three more orgasms out of me, which leaves me clawing at the leather seats, begging him to never stop.
By the time we finally stagger out of the car, it’s half-past midnight and I’m starting to worry we’ve pushed our luck too far.
“I don’t think anyone’s here.” I scan the edge of the old shack. The place is falling apart. Dark, damp and rotting.
“Wanna head back to the car?”
“Behave.” My scalpel glints in my hand. Sharp and familiar. Theo’s holding something shiny too. His gun — well, technically it’s Finn’s gun, which is something neither of them were exactly thrilled about, but I don’t really care. I’ve been working with Theo in our scraps of free time, teaching him close combats, disarms, how to free his hands if tied up, how to find pressure points. It’s just for self-defense. I don’t ever want to see him bleeding and dying on a hospital bed again. That being said, when we’re out like this (ergo, when he’s with me) he’s not supposed to use the gun unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s supposed to let me play with my blade.
He knows how much it turns me on to watch bad men bleed for what they’ve done.
I take a few steps forward. I stop. Something moves in the shadows. I glance at Theo. He grins at me like a deranged hyena.
“Helloooo,” I call softly, sweetly. “Are you going to come out or do I have to drag you out? Because that’s gonna hurt. And I don’t want it to hurt.” Not yet.
Silence.
“Come on out, pal,” Theo says. “She’s trying to be nice. And believe me, that’s extremely rare.”
I roll my eyes. That’s literally not true. I’m very nice.
A whimper cuts through the silence. Followed by a low, choked sob.
Irritated, I groan and walk forward. I don’t have time for this shit. I kick one of the leaning metal boards with the toe of my boot. It clatters to the side with a dull scrape, revealing the cowardly rat hunched beneath a rotting shelf.
The very last of them.
He’s young. Maybe early twenties. He’s also pale and shaking. I think his name is Seth? Or Sam? Definitely something with an “S.”
“Why are you crying? I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“P-please…” he stammers, eyes teary. “I haven’t done anything…please, don’t…”
“That’s exactly what I said. Don’t copy me.”
More crying.
Ugh. I glance back at Theo. “Can you help, please?”
Theo moves immediately. Crosses the distance in two long strides, presses a quick kiss to my cheek like it’s date night (which, I guess it is), then crouches and grabs — Sebastian? — by his collar, yanking him out into the open with practiced ease.
Samuel flails, tries to kick and land a punch, but my man’s stance stays solid. The second he lets the kid go, I deliver a swift knee to his groin. He collapses with a scream, curling over himself like a dirty crushed roach.
“You know why this is happening, don’t you?”
Bloodshot eyes. Mute panic.
I drive the heel of my boot into his nose. Something crunches. A streak of red arcs across the black leather of these thigh-high boots Theo loves so much.
“No?” I tilt my head. “Your dead friends didn’t give you a heads-up?”
He starts to scramble backward, but I slam a kick into his ribs. He gasps, coughing.
“You had to have noticed a pattern though, right? One by one, your little buddies dropping like flies. You had to know it’d be your turn eventually. And if you did notice, you’re even dumber than you look for staying in this city. Though I doubt running would’ve stopped me.” I crouch down next to his broken nose. “I love a good chase.”
He blinks up at me through blood and tears, and whimpers something incoherent.
