I don’t know what to say, but the screams are giving me a headache, so I nod.
“Yes.” My fingertips are numb from how tightly I’m clenching my hands. “Yes, they have.”
The masked man nods once more, then turns, stalking toward the man with the knife in his throat. Red 7 rips it out, making quick work of slitting his throat. He moves on to the next two with mechanical precision, taking their lives in a similar manner, quieting them forever.
I rub my palms over my arms, shivering at thewrongnessof the silence. I can’t bring myself to watch as Red 7 stands and paces toward me. All my energy is going into keeping myself standing, to stop from sinking to the ground in a puddle.
A hand on my cheek makes me jump. I raise my eyes, shocked to find the notorious serial killer standing in front of me, caressing my face.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I ask, my voice surprisingly numb.
Red 7 runs his gloved thumb under my eye, collecting the single tear that managed to escape. A low chuckle shakes his chest, and that awful red mask shakes back and forth.
“Of course not.” He leans in, rubbing the metal against my temple in a gentle caress. “I’m going to do much worse.”
There’s a sharp prick in the side of my neck, and the world goes black.
CHAPTER TWO
SEVEN
I’m not a good man.Not at all. Not even a little.I don’tsavepeople. No one saved me—no one gave me a fucking thought. So why did I save her? Whyher, and no one else?
My thumb brushes gently over the picture on her ID, taking in her pouty pink lips and dark-brown hair framing a pair of round molten-chocolate-colored eyes. Makeup covers her freckles in this picture, but her cheeks are wonderfully rosy, and if you look closely, you can see the little spots peeking through.
Grace Kent. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.
Grace’s mattress creaks as I take a seat on the edge, but it’s not enough to draw her from her drug-induced sleep. I gaze at her vulnerable form, resisting the urge to press my thumb between the crease of her brow and trail my hands over her luscious curves. As I sit there, little sounds pour from her parted lips, and her eyelids flutter wildly—her body trying desperately to wake her.
A nightmare.I haven’t had a dream since I was a child, so watching someone in the act of it is strange to me. I think back to earlier in the night and wonder if she’s dreaming of our encounter, reliving it on an endless loop like I have for the past two hours.
I close my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of Grace clinging to every surface of the room. My mind travels back to that fateful moment, the scream of the animal that captured my attention, and the breathtaking sight of the young woman I found when I investigated.
Instead of putting the poor creature out of its misery, she was attempting to free it—to save it. Her compassion had so enamored me that I stopped and watched her for what seemed an eternity before she could undo the trap.
But her kindness came with a price, as it always does in Moriton.
I watched from the shadows as the three men approached, cornered, and toyed with her, my boredom growing with each passing moment. But then, everything changed. Faced with certain death, Grace lashed out like a wild animal, using everything in her arsenal to maim her attackers. To fight.
Her ruthless ferocity impressed me. More than that, it made mefeelsomething when I thought I no longer could. She was marvelous, and I decided then and there that I was not going to let her become tainted by those street slugs.
I shake myself out of the memory, my gaze snapping to Grace’s still form once more.
“Sweet, beautiful girl,” I whisper, staring hard at her swollen lips. I did my best to clean her wounds with a warm rag and soap, but with the sedative I gave her earlier, it wasn’t safe to give her a proper bath. I applied a healing salve manufactured by the Sanctum, which should keep her scrapes clean and aid in cell reproduction, helping her to get better faster. Not soon enough, though.
A wave of emotion crests in my veins as I relive the moment the attacker struck her. I shift closer, reaching out to her face. My bare fingertips brush the fresh bruises on her cheek and the cut on the corner of her mouth. A spike of anger accompaniesthe glorious feel of her skin when I remember how someone else wounded her.
She is mine. Mine to touch. Mine to mark. Mine to breed.
My lips peel back in a smirk as I slide my hand down to Grace’s thigh, brushing her with the tips of my fingers. The flesh on her hip is raw and heated, covered by a bandage that’s slightly rough to the touch compared to the softness of her skin. My smile grows wider, knowing that beneath the thin barrier lies my signature. My brand in bloodred ink, etched into her for eternity.
“You belong to me now,” I say.
A voice in the back of my head screams that I can’t just take her. As much as I want to bring her to my home, lock her up, and breed her, I know I can’t. The Sanctum would imprison me for it—lock me up and throw away the key. Leave me to die in a dark pit in the ground. Going about this hastily will only end in misery. I need to have a plan.
My body rebels as I pull my hand away from Grace, but I know this is for the best. I cover her luscious body with her comforter, tucking her in all along her sides so she doesn’t get cold in the night.
Though I shouldn’t, I remove my mask. Leaning down, I press my lips to her forehead, and the sensation is euphoric.
