“Don’t,” the soft yet strong voice begs, but there’s no real note of fear in the plea, making megenuinely curious.
There’s more sloppy slurping, leaving my movements unnoticed.
I picked up Mikah’s trail two minutes after I killed Jackson. It took me ten minutes to reach the spot where he decided to rape the woman he picked, who was bound to a barbed-wire fence.
“You’ve been with Serge for many years, Aubrey. You knew better than to touch his latest toy,” Mikah lectures before rising, lifting, and spreading her legs.
“Mikah,” she moans, and I roll my eyes. These two obviously have had previous encounters where sex was definitely involved. Her earlier protest was role play. “How else was I going to be free of Serge and that new bitch, Reina?”
Reina?
Her name is unfamiliar to me, and I make a mental note to get more information on Serge’s new obsession. I know he won’t share her. But is she a victim or much like the many bastards whose final resting place is on this farm?
Mikah’s fucking the life out of this woman, and she’s eating it up, a Cheshire Cat that ate the canary smile is plastered to her face.
“I’m better than that bitch of a sister, aren’t I, Mikah?”
Snorting, I shake my head. Some people have zero sense of self-preservation.
“Aubrey, you’re in danger, girl,” I mock, smirking when I see the shift in Mikah’s features without seeing his face. His back stiffens—his spine straightening as his thrusts become erratic. They stagger until he stops, pulling out without nutting. His dick is tucked back into his pants by the time the idiot realizes what she did wrong.
Shock replaces Aubrey’s earlier confidence while she scrambles to get to her feet, but it’s too late. She’s already tied down. The only thing she does is squirm, allowing the barbed wire to dig into her skin.
I watch in rapt attention as Mikah’s posture stiffens, his back going ramrod straight while his shoulders curve up and out, extending as if bones are about to crack in order to accommodate the very visible vitriolic rage seeping through his skin.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he shifted into a werewolf or some shit.
Nostrils flared, Mikah’s skin blooms redder than the blood currentlypouring out of her arms, as he cracks his neck and spins, snatching his chef’s knife before whirling back around.
Fear—unadulterated fear sparks off her skin. It’s more than enough to light the embers of Mikah’s devolving state into a raging inferno.
“You—”
Stab.
“Shouldn’t.”
Stab.
“Have.”
Stab.
“—Mentioned her.”
The violent cadence of each thrust, as if he’s the conductor of a symphony, speaks to the level of the psychopath he is.
As much as I’d love to sit and watch the lovers fight, I have a gift I need wrapped before my little fox arrives.
I move without any further provocation. Sharing the same air as the pricks that killed my sister is enough to usher them both into the afterlife, leaving a trail littered with their innards, an action that more than proves why I earned the title Shinigami—God of Death.
“Stop fucking crying,” Mikah growls, yanking at the ends of his hair while pacing a hole into the dirt. His Michael Myers mask is tossed on the ground, flecks of blood splatter on it.
I smirk, “Perfect.” It saves me the time of having to carve it off his face.
“L-l-let m-m-me g-g-go,” she pleads, her face streaked with tears and caked in blood.
Mikah looks up, eyes wild and frenzied. His hand is swinging through the air, and before I can blink, his fist cracks the side of her face, launching her head back. Blow after blow, her body slowly grows limp. It’s only then that he stops.
