I want to crack her apart. I killed her groom in front of her, and she made no sound. I thought she was in shock at first, but she’s remained calm.
Who is she? I researched the wedding but focused more on the layout of the church. The target was a civilian, a nobody. At first glance, his wife-to-be and guests were the same.
But this woman who wears a mini knife around her neck is more than who she seems.
I relax in my seat, letting her speak first. The car turns down an alley, weaving through the city and making its way east.
“Why?” she finally asks.
I cock my head. “Why what?”
“Why did you kill him?”
“It was a job. Nothing personal.” A disappointing target, who didn’t even fight back.
She snorts. “A knife to the heart? A bullet would have been easier.”
My brows raise. With each passing moment, she’s proving herself an enigma. Is she dangerous, like me? I hope so. Conquering her will be the sweetest challenge.
“I prefer a blade. It’s more intimate. Respectful.” I pat my jacket lining, where my preferred killing knife is secured.
“So you’re a psychopath.”
My gut kicks with an unexpected laugh. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
“I guess it’s useful in your line of work.”
“My line of work?”
“You’re a hitman. You said it wasn’t personal.” She sounds impatient, as if she knows I’m being deliberately obtuse.
I was prepared for hysterics. Messy tears, blotchy skin, panicked thrashing. Even a mafia princess would lose her cool and make threats or pleas for her life.
Her controlled reactions are unexpected and so much more delicious.
“And what about you? I killed your groom in front of you.”
“I’m in shock.” She does not sound like she’s in shock. She sounds like I interrupted her lunch.
What will she look like with her lipstick smeared from my kisses, her hair wild?
Soon I will know. My groin tightens at the thought. The monster in me roars, ready to roam free. I keep him leashed a little longer. My prey is close beside me but still wary. I want her fiery and fighting, as desperate for me as I am for her.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sample a bride on her wedding day. To touch her, feast on her, make her moan. My work offers me many depraved delights, but I’ve never experienced this one.
But now I have the chance. The fact that this bride might hate me only tempts me more.
I seduce her, on her wedding night, mere hours after slaughtering her betrothed.
And I will make her enjoy it.
Her veil tumbles over her brow, and she shoves it up again. I brush her hand away. Slowly, carefully, I remove each hairpin, holding her gaze.
After three pins, she looks out her window, but the red staining her olive cheeks isn’t from her makeup. Finally, a reaction.
I separate the veil from her head, roll down my window, and let the wind snag the filmy white fabric. It blows away, dancing in the car’s wake like a ghost. “Better?”
“Much.”
