Page 4 of Sinful Promise
To kill another human is… a heady act. Love it or hate it, justified or not, it’s an ethereal experience few get to have.
If everyone felt what flows through a person’s veins after the job is done, we’d have an epidemic of murder that no law enforcement agency in the world could contain.
“Let’s go home,” I murmur.
“Yeah.” He bites again so my pulse throbs at my core, and my veins swirl with lust and warmth.
“This was the right thing to do,” he breathes. “You just saved countless lives.”
Pulling away before I can respond, he takes his gun from the holster, and a silencer from a pocket on his left side. My heart clogs in my throat as he spins steel on steel, then my stomach jumps when he presses the end of the barrel to Fentone’s forehead and pulls the trigger.
I jump when the back of Laramie’s head, and its contents, sprays across the unused side of his bed.
Adrenaline fires through my blood as Archer re-holsters his gun, then my nerves kick in as he turns and snatches my hand in a tight grip.
“Now we can go.”
“Archer, what—” I stumble as he yanks me out the door, then frantically watch each step as we descend. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because we’re both in.”
He tugs me through the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, then hip-bumps the front door open so he doesn’t have to touch it with his hands. Yanking me across the threshold, then onto the sidewalk, he glances back only to make sure the door swings shut on its own. Then we’re off.
Shadows move along the street, but he throws his arm over my shoulder, giving the impression we’re only a couple taking a night stroll, instead of killers fleeing a crime scene.
“That knife special to you?” he rumbles.
I look down at my hand to find the glinting blade still gripped tight between my fingers. “No, I—”
“Traceable?” He reaches into his coat and takes out a piece of cloth I’ve never seen. A square of fabric, like a handkerchief, but homemade, frayed edges and all. “Minka, is it—”
“Not traceable to me.”
“Great.” He grabs it with the cloth, so the knife doesn’t touch his bare skin, wipes it from tip to hilt, then dropping the lot in a trashcan as we pass, he looks down at the gloves I wear on my hands. “Time to get rid of those, too.”
“Yeah.”
I’ve done this before… killed men and disposed of the evidence. But Archer’s presence makes my actions slower. Myaftercare, less organized.
I peel one glove off, the way I do every single day at work, then I fist it in my palm and bring the next off and over it, so I don’t contaminate either the gloves, or my flesh. “I was gonna hold on to these until—”
“I’ll hold them.” He takes the balled-up pair and pushes them into his pocket. Then he reaches down quickly to unscrew the silencer from his gun.
A cop carrying a weapon in the street? Totally fine. A cop carrying a silenced, altered, unregistered weapon? Not so fine.
“Will they trace the bullet to you?”
“No.” He drops the steel end into the pocket on his left, then comes back to wrap his arm over my shoulder. “Never. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…” Frowning, I glance up to catch his profile. His strong jaw, and average-sized ears. Hisalmost-shaggy hair, and his perfect nose, despite his record of violence throughout his adolescence. “I’m not hurt,” I continue after a beat. “I’m fine.”
“Are you satisfied?” He peers over our shoulders, but there are no people around. No sirens wailing. No officers coming to arrest us. “Mayet?” He comes back to meet my eyes, curling his arm in to bring me closer. “Happy?”
“That I killed someone?” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and shake my head. “No. But am I happy that another six-year-old won’t end up on my table tomorrow?” Finally, I nod. “Yes.”
“Fentone deserved to die.” He pulls us around a sharp corner and cuts across the few blocks between Fentone’ssafehouse and our apartment. Then he moves to the bar beside our apartment, touches the door—not to go in; not even to open it… he just touches, like he needs the contact—then he leads me into our building and up the stairs.
Steve, my landlord, typically takes up residence at the bottom of the staircase and greets tenants as we come and go. But at nearly midnight, he’s tucked away for the evening, and as such, he cannot be called upon as a witness to our comings or goings, should we ever end up in a criminal courtroom.
