I don’t back up; I won’t give him that!
“How did you know?”
“I know everything.” Another step.
Now he’s here, towering, massive. I can’t decide if I want to fight him… or—fucking hell!
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. His gloved hand lifts, brushing my cheek, and my skin burns where he touches. His thumb drags slowly along my jaw, over mythroat, stopping just above my chest, right on my collarbone. My body leans forward into his touch like it has a life of its own. “But you need to be more careful, hellcat.” His voice is so deep my heart almost forgets how to work. “And get a better knife.”
His head tilts, studying me through the mask.
“That little toy you used?” There is a hint of amusement now. “Pathetic.”
“Oh really?” I lift my chin, smirk, and step in even though my pulse is pounding. “And what kind of blade do you prefer… hmm?”
His hand snaps to my throat so fast I gasp; he holds me here like I belong under his hand. His thumb presses right beneath my jaw. His voice stays low.
“I prefer blades that finish the job.”
I tilt my head and meet his masked face “And if I already have a new knife?” I whisper.
“Show me,” he says, daring me.
So I do.
I slide the knife from my waistband and sink it into his thigh.
His grunt is low, dark and guttural, but he doesn’t fall. I try to pull away, but his hand snaps around my wrist, blood slick between us. He yanks me in, so close I can taste the iron heat of it on his skin, his voice dragging hot across my ear.
“You owe me for that, hellcat,” he growls. “And I always collect.”
Then, just as fast, he lets go and I bolt.
The dark swallows me whole, my lungs burn, my heart slams. I reach the car, wrench the door open, and shove the key toward the ignition, my hands shaking so hard I miss the slot the first time.
Gear. Gas. Tires scream over dirt.
One glance in the mirror and there’s nothing, he’s—gone.
By the time I drop my tools at the safe spot and step into my apartment, my cheeks are flushed, and my neck feels scorched.
What the hell was that? And why is there a pulse between my legs?
No no no no. I just killed a man. Again. This is not the moment to think about some masked freak with shoulders broad enough to block out the world and a voice that could talk me into handing him my soul.
I haven’t been touched in years. And now…
God.
He touched my cheek, my neck, my collarbone and I wanted more.
I collapse onto the bed, exhaling hard.
I need therapy. The lock-me-up kind, and a cold shower.
This is adrenaline.
Has to be, no one gets this wet over a masked psycho.
