I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”
Her delicate throat pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in mine, my thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.
Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.
I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
1
FLESH OF MY FLESH
GRAYSON
The beat of slow-pulsing music stirs my blood.
There’s an influence to its beat, an air of mystery. That which is too powerful, too ineffable, to describe—you have tofeelit. That intoxicating rhythm coursing through your system. Adrenaline sliding against your veins. A lover’s caress that makes your body tremble, anticipation igniting your skin.
It’s the feeling only a truly free person can feel.
Alive.
The beat throbs inside my chest as I move through the dark club. Bodies pressed thick and undulating on the floor, exposed skin, sweat. The smell of lust and alcohol infuses the air.
I watch the body of the crowd rise and fall like the swell of a wave. Crashing and cresting. A siren’s call beckoning me closer as I weave through the dancing bodies like a prowling wolf.
As if in slow motion, I walk among them, noticing every lick of the lips. Sway of the hips. Touch to the brow. Dilation of pupils.
It’s predatory, this gravitational pull that arouses their curiosity. Men and women alike turn in my direction, their eyes tracking my movement. Hypnotic sex appeal—it’s a lure. The predator doesn’t need to stalk its prey. Like the bright, colorful flower that attracts the insect, then snaps its mouth around its meal?—
I can feel their draw to me.
That power surges, emitting a pheromone to reel them in. The music choreographs our dance, the composition of hunter and prey. It’s electric.
I settle against the back wall of the nightclub, all corners and the entrance in view. I’m dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, concealing the tattoos that have been circling the media and Internet. I’ve changed the color of my eyes from blue to brown with contacts. My hair’s grown out enough not to match my description.
But here—among the other predators—I don’t have to hide.
They welcome me.
This is my hunting ground.
The beat changes. Faster. Harder. And my gaze captures the blonde entering the Blue Clover.
My whole body is lit on fire.
Like a moth seeking the flame, I only see her; her brilliance illuminates the dark. The club fades away, the music becomes a distant, muted backdrop to the loudthumppulsing in my ears. Every muscle in my body tenses, my chest aflame with a searing ache that burns my throat, my mouth watering to taste her.
Six weeks on the run, and this is the first time I’m in danger of being caught.
She glides around the room like a goddess before her worshipers. She’s a sinner and a saint, her short black skirt a tease to the senses, her angelic brown eyes set with flecks of gold—a lure into her gauzy web with the promise of salvation.
And I am lured. Completely. She owns my entire being.Flesh and bone. My black soul belongs to her. With one look, she takes me down. If she demands I kneel right here, I’ll drop to my knees, offer penance for my sins as I plead for her to devour me.
She moves closer, keeping me in her sights, and I’m clawing out of my skin to reach her. I press my back against the wall to ground myself. My shoulders ache from the pressure. I’m hard in anticipation as I watch her slender legs eat the distance between us.
With three words from her I come undone:
“I found you.”
