Well, shit.
I don’t know why I’m still surprised when these men say things that sound straight out of an R-rated paranormal revenge flick, but here we are.
The only upside? The Candy Maker’s shop might be in my jurisdiction, but her house is not. Which means I’ll be there when she dies, but I won’t feel the pull to reap her soul. Small mercies.
Still, it makes me think.
“You guys might lure a different Grim Reaper over,” I mutter, thinking aloud. “What happens then?”
He glances up at me.
“We’ll just have to wing it.”
…Wing it.
I blink at him. Then I laugh, because what the actual hell.
“No elaborate trap?” I raise a brow. “No weird, overcomplicated ritual? You’re not planning to lock them in place so they don’t reap the soul first?”
The corner of his lips twitches.
“Nope. Only you get that special treatment. I told you before, haven’t I?” His voice drops, smooth and smug. “You’re it for us, Skye.Our little Grim.”
And just like that, I suddenly understand how villains must feel when the hero delivers a one-liner before kicking their ass.
I’m gettingwrecked.
Then he does it. The thing. The lip thing. Tongue flicks out, tugs at his piercing, eyes glinting like he knows exactly where my gaze just landed.
Oh, he’s doing that on purpose.
I mean… my eyes do jump to his lips whenever he messes with that little metal ring, but for him to outright weaponize it? That’s bordering on psychological warfare. Or…flirting.
When was the last time you flirted with someone, Skye?
My ex-husband wasn’t much of a flirt. Hell, he wasn’t much of anything, except a cold man and a coward. If I had to dig through my tragic backstory, I’d say my last real flirtation happened somewhere between teenage hormones and making the worst life choice of my existence—choosing him.
“Wish I could say you’re my only serial killer,” I muse, letting my gaze linger on his lips. “But unfortunately, I have two others.”
“Unfortunately?” he purrs back. “Why, the more, the merrier.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why would I want more serial killers?”
“Because we’re charming.”
“You guys are a pain in the ass.”
He sighs dramatically, peeling off his gloves like he’s in some slow-motion perfume ad, then slicks a strand of ink-black hair behind his ear.
“Think about it, Skye,” he says, voice as lazy as when he was mixing whatever unholy concoction he’s working on. “We’re men with strong values. We don’t fit into a box, we know how to get what we want, we don’t ask for permission, and we don’t take shit from anyone. That kind of confidence… comes in handy for other things.”
Other things…?
Is he—? No. No way. Who in their right mind flirts with a dead woman?
They can’t even touch me. Not like that, anyway.
…But I’ve always liked imagining things I couldn’t have.
