One feed in the back of the storeroom and one on the side of the building that sits at a lazy, low angle that catches the corner where Prayer leans when her back hurts.
There she is now, arms propped behind her on the counter, wearing a wee smile that fools folk into thinking she’s gentle.My gaze goes to that bruise blooming on her neck where shadow-teeth got her.Marks I dinnae make, and it’s gorgeous, and it mangles me.
Part of me wants to replace them with my own.Part of me wants to add mine beside them so she’s covered in claims, in love that leaves evidence, so she never forgets she’s worshipped.
I’ll share her, I guess, so long as she remains my Prayer.
“Och, look at ye,” I say, a daft smile pulling at my mouth.“You’re a goddess of ruin.”
She reaches for a pen without looking and spins it through her fingers, and I swear something holy flickers in my ribs.A couple of eejits wander in for crisps, and she gives them the customer-service face I hate.I watch until they pay and piss off, until her mouth unhooks from mock-polite and slides back to true.
That’s when she’s most beautiful.
I press my thumb to the glass over her, a benediction she cannae feel.
“Done, Prayer,” I whisper.“Ye’ll never ken the price I paid for clean hands.”
And I don’t mean blood.I mean restraint.I mean a man with a boring name breathing easy in his bed upstairs because Prayer said bodies make noise.Because she asked for precision instead of violence.Because tonight I let a bad thing keep its face and still bent the world to her will.
That’s harder than killing, ye ken.Any bastard can swing a fist.It takes love to hold it back.
“Sleep while ye can, ya dobber,” I tell the night, meaning the man in the house I just left.“Tomorrow’s going to be a belter.”
Chapter 6
Sera
BarelyfivesecondsafterI get home from work, someone knocks on my front door.Three sharp raps, cutting through the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant whisper of Shadow Daddy’s presence in the vents, then the pipes, then the walls.
It’s definitely not James, who only knocks once loudly.Red Hands making a bold comeback, even with the private investigator Detective Eddie hired to keep eyes on me parked right out front?
Doubtful.
Holding my breath, I cross to the door.The porch light is off because it’s still broken.Through the peephole, Eddie stands under the weak moonlight, his broody bad-boy face carved in sharp planes of shadow.His posture is rigid, shoulders locked, his emotions contained like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid through sheer, clamped-down will.
I unlock the door and open it.
“We need to talk.”He steps inside, the scent of crisp leaves and cold night air clinging to his black leather jacket.
He scans the dim hallway for Shadow Daddy, or anyone else he deems a threat, and then turns his intense gaze on me.Strands of his dark hair flop over one blue eye as he regards me.
I shut the door behind him with a controlled click.“It’s after midnight.I’m about to go to bed.”
“You’re up now.”His gaze flicks over me and snags on the mark on my neck.“This won’t wait.”
I lean against the door, crossing my arms.The movement pulls my thin cotton work shirt tight across my chest.
His eyes track it for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my face.
“So talk, then,” I tell him.
He takes a breath.“This whole thing with James.”
I raise an eyebrow.“What whole thing with James, Eddie?”
“Playing with fire.Letting him drag you into his…chaos.“ He spits the word.“The cameras?Doesn’t that bother you?Breaking into this guy Devlin’s house tonight?Planting evidence?Christ, Sera.I’m a detective.I can’t know this shit is happening.”
“Men get away for beating their wives and girlfriends all the time.We’re making sure this one pays.”
