Page 7

Shit! Fucking branch.

I duck behind the oak tree. After a moment of silence, the sound of dirt shifting under her feet has me peering around the edge of the tree.

She is, indeed, a predator. A beautiful predator.

Leaning my shoulder against the tree, I watch her swan back through the trees toward the path. The bane of my existence. As cunning and creative as she is cold and calculating.

Under different circumstances, I might have asked her for a drink. The sway of her hips has my dick stiffening in my pants. Fucking masochist.

Readjusting, I push off the tree.

The woman was humming and twirling around like a little star in her own princess movie while she killed a man. I can appreciate being playful, but where is the fucking professionalism? Ridiculous.

Cautiously, I move forward to observe her display. Breathtaking. Each petal pinned with precision. Nearly perfect.

Pulling the strand of braided tulips from my bag, I exhale. I hadn’t exactly planned to intrude upon her work. But she forced my hand. Up until a few months ago, I only had my sights on the man operating in my city preying on women. Then her flowers took center stage.

Torn and shredded flesh, the police report stated.

A daisy.

A bleeding portrait of anxiety.

Soon, they were popping up all over the city like the first shoots of spring.

Imagine my surprise to find a woman creating these flowers. She wasn’t just any woman, though.

Patience Hynes. A woman with eyes the color of emeralds and flowing auburn hair that rests lightly across her ample⁠—

Pull yourself together, Ethan. Fucking Christ.

Then the police, in all their wisdom, dubbed her The Ravager. Ridiculous. They’re incapable of injecting any creativity into any aspect of their work, even something so simple as a name.

I did a bit more research over the past few months—which admittedly may have bordered on stalking. In my defense, she is the most intriguing creature. Cultured and refined. Her art is a testament to that. And it is art. Her unique ability to breathe life into the lifeless is unmatched.

Even by myself. Though, I hate to admit it.

My marionettes bring movement into the motionless but fail to evoke emotion the way her flowers do. If only she weren’t creating them in my city. I’m not accustomed to sharing. It doesn’t help that my marionettes were cast to the side by the leeches of the press.

My plan was going so well until this morning. I was going to introduce myself after the auction, arrange a few accidental run-ins at other events, and eventually strike up a conversation.

I don’t have friends with the same hobbies. Not that I’m lonely, but it would have been nice to have someone to converse with.

When I first saw her, she was warm and bubbly. Of course, she didn’t know I was there. This morning, however…the flash of her cold eyes crosses my mind. She just had to be so unnecessarily rude. Admittedly, my temper got the better of me. I couldn’t help it. She just kept giving me that cold, dead stare. She looked as though she was working as the personal secretary of the god of wrath.

Walking closer to her canvas, I can see that perhaps she may be more than annoyed with me after this morning’s auction.

Rage. Definitely a petunia.

The petals of neck skin have been cut with precise jagged ends and pinned into crude but deliberate overlapping layers. The only difference is a small piece of flesh protruding from the gaping hole in the stump of his neck. Leaning closer, I tilt my head from side to side, but the moonlight makes it difficult to see.

I lift my gloved hand and pinch the malleable flesh. The moment my fingers make contact, it shifts off-center. Fuck. I try to re-center it, but it falls to the other side. Letting out a sigh, I pinch it again, but my grip slips. The protrusion begins sliding toward his chest. Thankfully, I catch it before it hits the ground.

Uncurling my fingers, I take in the manhood now resting in my palm. My stomach sinks as I peer at the blood pooling between his legs. Oh, for fuck’s sake! Swallowing the bile building at the back of my throat, I do my best to place it back where she had positioned it.

Did my bid upset her so much? Surely that can’t be it. She likes the author, yes—her internet searches and views of the auction catalog are evidence of that—but why would the loss at the auction incite such resentment?

Shaking my head, I weave the strand of tulips over the rope around his neck. My own touch to finish her art.