Page 44 of Painted Scars
Me: Murder Spice already RSVP’d in blood. Should I be worried?
Her cute little grin cracks something in me—the part that wants to give her everything.
Kate: She’s officiating the ceremony. Hope you’re okay with black veils, blood vows, and glitter cake
Flirty. Forward. Fierce. She’s a triple threat to my composure.
Me: I put my foot down at throwing knives instead of rice.
She bends over laughing, and it twists inside me. Joy faded for me a long time ago, and she’s waking it up, warming it, setting it free.
Me: Howl like that on our wedding night, and the neighbors will call the cops.
Kate: I want a ring first. No diamonds. This princess demands color.
Me: Get your ass down here. You haven’t eaten anything and need dinner.
Kate: Dinner and a ride? You’re on, hubs. I Drove All Night.
My dick wants to take the reins. She’s going to get herself killed… or get under my skin. And why do I like her cute little quirks with the song titles?
She vanishes from the window to get her things.
I pull out a ball of purple tissue paper and unwrap it. Nestled inside is an ornament I worked in the fire and shaped with my tools for hours. Moonlight glints on the glass as I twist it. Dumb, but she inspired my creation. Fragile and beautiful. Wild and untamed. Dangerous to my control. I roll it up and stuff it back in my pocket before I get any more sentimental.
Soft tread on the pavement calls my attention. Kate saunters up to me, wrapped in a dark coat and smug satisfaction.
“Fancy meeting you here. Stalk often?” She aims for sultry and taunting, but the faint crack at the end betrays her. She covers it fast with a smirk and slides a hand up my chest.
“I call it protection,” I clarify.
She shrugs. “Semantics.”
These book girlies twist monsters into love stories.
She rakes her gaze over me, sizing me up like a cut of meat in a butcher’s window. “Pierced and possessive, huh?”
My jaw ticks at Katar’s Instagram handle. Possessive, sure. Pierced? Not a chance in hell. That’s his domain.
“Possessive is the part you should worry about.” It’s better she never finds out my piercing status.
Her grin carves sharper. Sweet on the surface and wicked beneath. “I told you my fantasy. What’s yours? Stalking? Tying women up? Home invasion fantasies?” The last two sound awfully like she’s fishing.
Do not fold her over the bike. Do not spank her. Do not indulge your dick.
“Get on,” I grunt.
“Why the helmet? Scarred? Hiding a secret identity, Batman?” She reaches for it.
I stop her, clasping her wrist. “No.”
The woman is a reporter and won’t stop until she knows my name, address, and history. Good luck with that. Grayson erased most of my past from the internet and public records. She may find some brief evidence, but nothing to tie me to my past.
“Are you hungry or not?” I ask.
Realizing I’m immune to her tricks, she gives up. “Take me to Jack’s Diner. I want a burger and fries.” She pulls out her phone, and I assume she’s texting Murder Spice her whereabouts. “Kill me, and my friend will bury you, and I’ll come back to haunt you.”
Nothing new there. If only she knew she’s haunted me every damn day since I walked away. She’s in my blood, dreams, and every broken piece of glass I melt in the furnace to reshape into something whole.
