Page 11 of Watch Me Burn
Not with someone I love.
The question is far too personal, but I decide to answer.
“Being in her presence, her very existence, chases away the violence.”
He nods and gets to work as I head upstairs to shower. The hot water strips away the basement’s stench while I scrub with the soap and shampoo I always use before I go to her. No cologne, no designer products, just clean flesh that won’t betray my double identity. My reflection stares back from the steamed mirror. This double life has to end soon, but tonight I need to lose myself in Luna without the fear of her discovering the truth.
Athena greets me when I exit the bathroom, demanding attention I’m happy to give. My pulse shifts as I scratch behind her ears, my blood cooling from the fever pitch of violence.
The drive and short walk to Luna’s sanctuary complete the transformation from killer to lover.
By the time I reach her back door, Julian Pembroke is a closed chapter. There’s only Luna, waiting for me with her warm body and that beautiful smile that makes me believe I might be more than just a monster after all.
Chapter four
Luna
Iwake with a start, my eyes adjusting to the darkness of my bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat as I make out the familiar silhouette standing at the foot of my bed. Towering shoulders, lean hips, and the unmistakable silver wolf mask glinting in the moonlight.
My body responds before my mind fully wakes. My lips part on a soft exhale, and heat unfurls through me like opening petals, starting in my chest and spiraling lower until it pools warm and insistent between my thighs. The familiar ache of want burns beneath my skin as I drink in the sight of him standing like a dark sentinel at the foot of the bed.
He’s positioned himself in the shadows, the way he always does. I’ve never gotten a clear look at him, not in all the nights we’ve done this. Not really. He ensures that. Always staying where the light just barely touches him, taking his pleasure from me in the dark, where I can’t truly see him, where his identity remains concealed by shadow and silver.
Even in our most intimate moments, when he’s buried deep inside me and his body hovers over me, my eyes can only catch fragments. The burning intensity of his stare behind that carved metal, and the way his jaw clenches as he’s about to fill me with his come. The shadows offer me glimpses, maddening pieces that make me desperate for more, but never satisfaction. Never enough to truly know him.
He refuses to let me turn on any lights. Not the bedside lamp, not the bathroom light, nothing that might illuminate him properly. Only a handful of times has there been more than just pale moonlight to see him by.
Like the time in my office after he’d killed Odell Pearson. But my small desk lamp did nothing to offer more than what I’d already seen in the shadows of my kitchen or bedroom or living room. He knows how to wield darkness like a tool, how to give me his body while revealing none of the truths that matter.
The air in the room shifts, charged with an electric tension that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I stretch beneath the sheets, arching just enough to let him see how his presence affects me, the hard peaks of my nipples pressing against the thin cotton of my pajamas.
Doubt had tugged at me until I fell asleep, thinking he might not visit tonight. But he always shows. Except for a handful of times, he’s come to me every night since we’ve started this… what? Affair? I’m not even sure what to call it.
But here he is, watching me from behind that wolf’s face. Fire trails across my skin under his stare. My thighs clench at the memory of last night. His shirt whispered across my nipples, his body just grazing mine, like a gift before he’d pulled away and left me aching for what he’d offered and stolen back, leaving me wanting and unsure if I’d ever have it again.
A sharp pang of longing twists behind my ribs. I force it down. This thing we have has rules, and wanting more isn’t one of them. But that truth leaves a gaping wound where my heart keeps forgetting its place.
I push it away. It’s better to focus on what’s real—the hunger pouring off him in waves despite his stillness and the wild beat of my pulse against my throat. I sit up, and the sheets slide down, gather at my waist, and expose skin around my neck, marked with the shape of his fingers. I lock eyes with him, holding that masked stare without flinching.
“You’re late.”
“I had business to attend to tonight.”
I arch a brow. “You mean you killed someone?”
“Do you reallywant to know?”
The smirk on his lips is visible even in the dim light. It makes me want to slap him or spread my legs for him. Maybe both.
Of course, he just killed someone. The tension radiating off him is palpable on the nights he kills, the air around him thick with it. At first, those nights were brutal, his touch rough and punishing. But now, that tension seems to dissipate minutes after he gets here, after he’s inside me, as if being in my presence, in my body, calms him.
I glance over at Shadow, who sits on the floor waiting for attention. His relaxed posture is the reason I trust the man standing in front of me. If he meant me harm, Shadow would protect me.
“He knows I’ll never hurt you, Luna,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “At least not any more than you want me to.”
My body’s response is instant, my nipples tightening even further beneath the thin fabric of my pajamas until every breath scrapes them raw. When did I become a woman who craves a killer’s touch? And when did my prayers change from “keep him away” to “bring him back”?
His gaze drags down my body like fingertips, claiming what it sees. My core throbs with need, slick and ready for a man who’s carved himself into almost every corner of my life. I crave him, his hands on my skin, and his weight pinning me down. I want to feel crushed beneath him until breathing becomes a luxury.
