When I killed my foster mother, I took those beads from her throat and wrapped them around my hand, and I’ve kept them ever since. And when I’d started going to work without them, I’d formed a habit of cracking my knuckles to cope with not having them.
And then I got super fucking dark when I discovered I like to choke the life out of the women I fuck. I almost killed one once. Choking a little too hard can have that effect on someone. But lately, I’ve been more restrained, and it troubles me to see Cora hurt in any way. Maybe I’m growing softer with age. But I know that’s a lie because when the hunt comes around next weekend, I’ll have no issues killing whoever it is if I’m the first to find them.
Having blood on my hands is my favorite thing.
Well, it was until she came along.
THIRTY-THREE
CORA
When Cressida dropped me off at my apartment, she told me not to let anyone inside. While I don’t know her well, there was something in her tone and the fact that she has knowledge of Soren and Arlo’s extracurricular activities that makes her hard to ignore. I gave her a confused look, and she just said to trust her. So an hour later, when I’m undressing, and a knock sounds on my door, I immediately freeze.
With a calming breath, I walk to the door, look out the peephole, and see Arlo standing there. His hands are tucked into his pockets as he stares at the door as if, by some strange will of magic, it will open if he glares at it hard enough.
Does he plan to break in again?
Should I be calling the police already?
He focuses his gaze on the peephole like he knows I’m watching him, and he says, “Do you plan to let me in?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m on my period. We can’t fuck, so there’s no reason for you to be here.”
“A little blood on a man’s sword never hurt anyone.” My mouth opens in shock at his crass words, and I remember the blood from the last time we were together. It didn’t bother him.
“Let me in, Cora.”
“No! Should I call the police again?” I yell.
“Cora.” His voice is calm. “Let me in.”
“No,” I repeat, but a part of me is itching to let him in.
“Those beads I choked you with…” I wait for him to continue. “They’re the same beads I killed my foster mother with.” His confession makes my body lock up tight. “She would beat me with whatever she could find, and when I was on the floor and could no longer fight back, she would strangle me with them until I passed out.”
My back hits the wall near the door as I listen to him.
Why is he telling me all this? I never asked him.
But I have. I asked him why he wore them, and he told me they were a means of control. His tone is emotionless, indifferent, but I can feel the hurt he tries to keep buried. Knowing he went through all that as a kid has me hurting for him.
“I took that weapon and made it my own,” he says, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Before I can stop myself, my hand wraps around the doorknob and pulls it open.
“Why did you tell me that?” I whisper, my gaze snagging on the ever-present beads clutched in his fist. I should be disgusted with what he just told me—that he knowingly took a life—but I’m not. I think that’s what disturbs me more than his confession.
“It was personal. I want you to know the only person who knows that is Soren.”
“Do you plan to kill me because I know?”
“Of course not.” He lifts his hand to my cheek. “That thought actually pains me.”
“But you’re a bad man, aren’t you?” Everything points in that direction, no matter what his job might be. No matter how much he helps people, this man in front of me isn’t a good person.
“I am bad, yes,” he affirms as his thumb strokes my jaw. “I do bad things, and I enjoy them.”
