Page 1 of The Misfits
prologue
DEXTER
“Attempted murder, also referred to as Murder One, is when one, say the defendant, commits the heinous act of murder. Is that correct?”
My heart thumps my ribs when Cleo, the key witness at my trial, strays her wide eyes to mine. They’re the color of baked clay—bright and entrancing but utterly lifeless.
The last part of my assessment makes my cock swell. The broken are the most beautiful. They are fractured souls left defenseless to the people who don’t understand the beauty of their cracks.
I see past the damage. Past their wilted, pained looks. I see the exquisiteness behind the ugliness because the strength required to fix the broken is nothing less than miraculous. It separates men into two groups—cowards and gods.
I belong to the latter.
My pulse rages in my ears when Cleo licks her cracked lips. Her most subtle movement reminds me of their plumpness. Full enough to sink my teeth into, but not so pudgy they can’t hide her aloofness when she wordlessly consults with the DA. She’s hopeful he’ll advise her how the man sitting behind him wants her to answer.
Although annoyed she’s seekinghisopinion, I’m not shocked at her ability to express herself without words. We’ve communicated the same way many times during the three weeks of my trial. Her sneaky glances when she loseshisunforgiving glare and the alteration of her scent when I’m near proves she’s watching me as closely as I’m monitoring her.
That’s why I am defending myself. I don’t need pompous, insolent men telling me I’m “misconstruing the facts.” I can’t misread the way Cleo’s pulse quickens when she captures my steel-blue gaze or the sweat that mists her brow when my watch has her squirming in her seat. She isn’t panicked about my undivided attention. If her needy gaze isn’t witnessed by the man whowronglybelieves he owns her, she’s thrilled by it.
The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or heard. They are felt. Whether it is an invisible pull or the stars aligning just right, when you find your other half, you never give up the hunt until they are yours.
I erased the evidence of Cleo’s betrayal.
I forgave her for her error in judgment.
Now we have this last hurdle to jump, then we’ll be free to be with one another.
This trial isn’t Cleo’s choice.Heforced her into it. I can’t say I blame him. Who wouldn’t be threatened by my looks and unreachable wealth? I don’t just have the brains. I also have the brawn.
I could have had Cleo eating out of my palm years ago, but a change in game plan added an additional thrill. My relationship with Shelley, my last little pet, was exhilarating. It occurred at a rate three times the speed of my usual liaisons, but with the thrill of the hunt weakened by the ease of the game, the spark fueling our connection soon dwindled.
I tried to re-ignite the flame—I gave it everything I had—but her death ended our game before I could woo her with my god-like stamina and cunning intellect.
News of Shelley’s demise rocked me in a way I’ve never experienced. Seeing the life in her eyes vanish at the hands of another man was not a game I had ever fielded. When you are responsible for relighting the flame in one’s eyes, it’s only right that you’re the one who extinguishes it.
Cleo’s dad stole that right from me.
When his car veered across a patch of black ice and crashed into Shelley’s vehicle head-on, he took my game and flipped it on its head.
He also awakened a beast.
I was raised believing I had complete control. He proved I didn’t.
The fall from my tower was eye-opening and painstakingly long.
I will admit, I was lost the week following Shelley’s death.
Power isn’t something that is given.
You take it.
You steal it.
You go to the ends of the earth to find it.
But at no time do you have it stolen from you.
For the first time in twenty-four years, the devil beat me at my game. He snatched the prize out from beneath my nose. He played me for a fool.
