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Hard.

Her tongue scrapes along my teeth and blood caresses my bottom lip—and she doesn’t stop.

“You’re the first guy... First person to see me in a long, long time. I am dangerous. And you shouldn’t trust strangers,” she whispers, kissing me again, her good hand gripping my wild white spikes where they meet my neck.

“You’re trusting me,” I point out, out of fairness.

“I make lots of bad decisions,” she hisses, teeth edged in crimson, voice full of snark and sparkle.

I don’t know whether to be flattered, amused, or insulted that I might be one of them.

Chapter Twelve: Targets

I kissed him. I kissed the target, the monster, the thing that I saw rip someone apart. Blood sprayed everywhere. Arteries were geysers.

I wanted to be sick watching that, but you can’t be sick in front of Pazcuso, because a weakness will get you killed.

My mouth tastes like blood, and my insides throb in a dangerous way, and so does my ankle. My collarbone. Pain.

My pussy. Pleasure.

I thought my sexual desire was buried and dead, deader than the next guy Pazcuso intends to use for “parts.”

“I can’t,” I whimper, because I’m physically afraid I can’t.

I’m afraid that I’ll let him hurt me, because I’m so used to being numb, and pain is something confusing. A feeling. The pain in my ankle hurts, and it brings back horrible memories. But if Lazarus bites me or something—I might like it. He won’t even want to hurt me, that’s the tragic part, and if he does, he’ll feel bad, but I’ll feel... Like I deserved it?

“It’s okay, Victoria. It’s fine,” Lazarus, the demonic thing with electric eyes and killer teeth, is a gentleman, pulling back at once, panting a little, looking concerned as he caresses my cheek. “I’m sorry about your lip. I’m not sure how to fix that part of me. I mean, Manny has a dental plan, but—”

I stop him. “Don’t apologize. I like your smile.”

Lazarus’ shocked face is funny. And sweet.

I’m not lying. I’m not playing a part now. He’s so unique and so scarred, but still so incredibly handsome, like Lazenby was showing off when he took a bunch of dead things and made them beautiful.

The longer I stare, the more I like his face—and the rest of him that I can see. He’s like those pots in Japan, the broken ones they mend with gold until they are works of art. His scars are lines in silvery leather, and I’m suddenly an art collector.

“You do?”

“I do.”

Lazarus breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring, then narrowing as he sucks in air, trying to reinflate lungs that have already had to learn to breathe twice over. “Um. I... I think you might need to rest. And put some ice on your lip, okay?” he finally says, backing up a little.

“Okay,” I whisper, smiling at how courtly he can be.

It’s not like I have a lot to compare to, but the last ten guys—Frank and a rotation of visitors, regulars, and rivals—were great at “taking care” of carelessness and the injuries they inflicted with absent pats on the ass and saying “Here, sweetheart, buy yourself something pretty,” while they tossed a few hundreds on the bed.

“You getting another headache?” Lazarus asks, hand gently cupping the back of my neck. “Your eyes glazed over.”

“Sorry. This isn’t going like I thought it would.”

That is the understatement of my life.

Have you seen my life?

That’s saying something.

“Me either. It can go how you want it. I’m not pushy.” He tries to look casual. Shrugs and looks off to the side like he’s not wearing my blood on his lips.