He freezes. I can practically see the gears in his head grinding — confusion, lust, ego, violence — all fighting in the same breath. He steps closer, fingers brushing my cheek like a lover.
“God, I missed this,” he groans.
I smile like a serpent. “Then let me show you how much I’ve missed you.”
He inhales sharply and his hand trembles. Desire and power swirl in his eyes, turning everything cloudy and unfocused. He doesn’t just want my body. He wants my surrender. Then he whispers. “…Maybe I should take these chains off. See what you really remember about making me happy.”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
I swallow down every ounce of nausea, every scream lodged in my throat. I keep smiling.
“Come closer,” I breathe. “Let me kiss you first.”
He leans in, intoxicated with the fantasy in his own mind.
Breaker, please. Please be coming.
Because if this works, I’ll have seconds, but if it doesn’t…
I force another smile.
My life depends on this.
“…come closer, Viper. Let me show you how bad I want it.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Breaker
The dead man’s car coughs and shudders as I push it toward the edge of town, the battered hood rumbling with the sound of hollowed-out pistons and misaligned gears. Everything about this heap is wrong — the cheap air freshener dangling from the rearview like an executioner’s noose, the crusted stains on the seat, the floor mat littered with spent sunflower seeds and cigarette butts. My hands are slippery with blood, and my left wrist is swelling and screams with every pothole I plow over. I cradle it against my chest, steering single-handedly down the road while the GPS barks directions at me in a mechanical voice.
When I reach the destination, I slam the car into the gravel parking lot hard enough that the tires spit rocks. I’m out before the engine even fully dies with a gun in hand, wrist throbbing, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest.
I shove the door open with my shoulder.
A dingy bell above the entrance rings as I step inside.
The bar is nearly empty, just some rough-looking locals in Carhartt and two guys shooting pool. Music hums low from a busted jukebox. The bartender stands behind the counter, drying a glass.
Everyone freezes.
They all stare — at my blood-smeared shirt, at my limp wrist, at the gun I don’t bother hiding.
The bartender swallows. “You, uh… need help with something?”
My voice is a rasp. “Yeah. I’m looking for a woman.”
His eyes flick nervously. “We got a waitress, but she don’t start work till later, when it gets busy.”
“Not that. Not her.” I slam my good hand on the counter. Bottles rattle and patrons flinch. Some guy shifts in his booth until I shoot him a look that freezes him in place. No one moves, no one leaves until I’ve got what I came for. “Small. Curly hair. Kind eyes. Perfect smile. She was here earlier.”
He shakes his head too quickly. “Nope. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”
This is the part of a man’s life where you find out if you’re still human, or if you’re something else. I stare at him long enough that the silence becomes a black hole.
“Are you sure about that?”
He looks away. “Don’t want trouble. Just trying to run a business.”
