Do I have proof my aunt was behind my mother’s murder nine years ago? No. Do I need it to kill her for it? Again, nah. This isn’t a courtroom, and fuck preponderance of evidence. All I need is to hold on to the image of my mother bleeding out on that street. Or of her body laid out in that glass coffin, looking asleep instead of dead as we filed pass her, saying our last goodbyes.
That’s my fucking evidence.
I’ma molly whop that bitch before I put a hot one right between her eyes. Unlike how she did with my mother, she’s going to see it coming from me.
A wave of anger ripples through me as I deliberately slice off the meat of the apple and crunch it between my teeth, letting a drop of the juice dribble down my chin. And I do nothing to stop it from dripping to my chest, framed by my black tank top. The Huntsman’s gaze dips to that drop, briefly lingering before rising back to my eyes. Anyone else would’ve missed that quick glance.
But not me. Nothing about the Huntsman escapes me.
“It’s not the who, Huntsman. It’s the what I need from you. What did she pay you? What were her instructions? Did she want you to assassinate me or bring me back to her? What were her plans, if she had any? And what proof did she request? Abena is nothing if not dramatic.” I sigh. “An ear here. A finger there.Even an eye once. What memorabilia did she demand you bring back to her?”
Cold silence.
Irritation should snap through me like fire. I even wait for it. Pause for that initial crackle of emotion and the hot spread of it.
But no. There’s no annoyance.
Just delight. Pure, unadulterated delight.
And anticipation.
Without breaking eye contact, I sink my teeth into the apple, biting out a huge chunk. Chewing, I toss the rest of the half-eaten fruit aside and ignore the soft thud of it hitting the floor.
“I can’t lie,” I murmur, leaning forward and flattening a hand on his wide shoulder. I release another hum, this one of pleasure, as heat from his massive body seeps through his long-sleeved black shirt to warm my palm. Twirling my knife between my fingers, I balance myself on my hand, rising a little on my knees. My pussy rails against me, practically weeping over the loss of his hard frame pressing between my legs. Not that I can blame her. “I was kind of hoping you’d stay quiet. I haven’t had a chance to practice my skills since I came out here. You’ll do.” I lower the blade to his throat, at the last second curving upward to caress his jaw with the sharp edge. “Wonder how many cuts it’ll take to get you talking. Please don’t disappoint me, Huntsman. Hold out for a while,” I softly say.
Call it twisted, perverse, dark—I really don’t give a fuck—but a part of me wants to cut him. Aside from the obvious reasons; a bitch hasn’t forgotten about him coming here to off me.
No, I’m talking about the vengeful, hungry part that desires to punish him for making me crave him to the point where he’s a liability. My liability.
I know it.
Abena knows it.
After all, that’s why he’s here in my sanctuary, the hideaway my mother left for me.
By accepting this job, he provided my enemy with not just a way to kill me, but to hurt me.
Honestly, I don’t know which is the bigger sin.
“Let’s start again,” I say, pushing off his shoulder and rising higher on my knees. Stroking a finger down the handle in a loving caress, I lower the knife to the base of his throat, just above his collarbone. I catch his gaze drop to my missing finger, and it’s almost like a physical touch over the now smooth, nerveless skin. That stare is calculating, judging, assessing. “Oh, don’t worry, that doesn’t bother my balance or skill in the least. It’s a bitch doing pinkie swears though.” I scrunch my nose.
His flat gaze flicks back to my face, and once more pleasure hums beneath my skin, spilling its honeyed warmth through me. His life is literally in my hands, and the power of that—of knowing with one well-placed slice, I could end his existence, bleed him out—is an addictive aphrodisiac. “What were her instructions? Kill me or bring me back?”
That frigid stare bores into me, and I smile.
And slice his skin.
Enough to sting. Enough to bleed. But just a little. I want this to last.
The barest flare of his nostrils. That’s all the reaction I receive. And honestly, I’m surprised he even gave me that. But then again, if every one of my senses weren’t attuned to him, to his special frequency, I would’ve missed it. He’s that good.
I’m better.
Tilting my head, I probe again.
“Instructions, Huntsman. What did she have planned for me?” I pause. “Nothing? Oh goody,” I breathe.
With a flick of my fingers, I cut him again, same spot, going deeper, widening the wound. Yeah, that had to hurt. It bleeds harder, crimson fluid sullenly seeping from between the clean edges. Dragging my attention from his sliced flesh to his face, I find that arctic stare still on me. It’s damn near physical, and…and not so cold. Heavy, deadly, promising retribution, but there are twin flames in those gray-blue eyes. For some reason, the deadened nerves where my finger used to be throb in a phantom ache. As if just one look from him ignites my pain, reconnects the memories of blood and torture like tissue and veins.
