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I’ve heard it said that the villain’s story is the one that hasn’t been told yet, and in my twenty-four years of life, I’ve discovered this to be true. So as I stare into the eyes of a renowned monster, one with a reputation for violence and bloodlust that exceeds my own, I’m not scared. I’m intrigued. And turned the fuck on.
Rumor has it that the O’Malley brothers are completely insane, volatile, and fueled by a lust for blood. The Irish Butcher and The Irish Strangler; both brutal killers who murder their victims with their bare hands and live for the blood they spill, even crave it. But the thing they don’t tell you is that Ciaran hunts monsters, that he joined a life of organized crime to hunt down those who strip away innocence and joy, leaving darkness and pain in their wake. Rumor also has it that Ciaran fucks like a tornado--hard, fast, furious, and with devastating effects.
Ciaran winks before placing me on the bed and walking over to the dead body on the floor. Bobby O’Shea, an Irish priest who got away with molesting thirty-nine boys. I enjoyed sticking my knife in him and hearing him beg. Perhaps Ciaran’s right. I should have sliced him bit by bit until the only thing that remained of him was random pieces of flesh.
He bends over the body, laughing as he fingers the wound along the fucker’s stomach, his fangs flashing. I wonder how his teeth would feel dragging along my flesh, and I shiver.
I shake my head, trying to get my bearings. “You can still cut up his dick and stuff it down his throat.”
Ciaran turns to me. His lips twitch before he smirks. “Nah, there’s no fun in that shit once they’re dead. I’m not a fucking serial killer who needs to stage shit or take a souvenir.” He walks back to me and glides his blood-soaked finger down my arm. “Hellcat, since you’ve ruined all my fun today, it’s only fair you be a good girl and let me taste your sweet pussy.”
He grips my arms, lifting me slightly.
“What if I say no?”
“You won’t.”
“You’re awfully confident, playing with a girl that could stab you and leave you dead beside the human trash over there.”
“You won’t.”
“Is that the only thing you can say?’
“Parisa Edwards, the only girl on the planet that can take me on and rev me up.”
I’m shocked he knows my name. Sure, I’ve got a reputation. I mean, there are few women that can take on three men and be the only one who walks out alive. But I wasn’t expecting to hear my name fall from his lips so easily, as if he’s been keeping tabs on me.
“How do you know my name?”
His hand glides up my hip and wraps around the second blade. He removes it from its sheath and points it at the wall to the side of his head. “I think the matching one is carved on the wall over there. You're known for your knife skills and for using these particular knives.”
I go to speak, but Ciaran’s hand is on my throat, restricting my airway. I search his face, looking for a sign that he’s going to release me, but he just smirks and increases the pressure on my jugular. His smile is insanely sexy. I’m not sure if he’s going to kill me or kiss me as he gazes at me, showing me a glimpse of his sharp incisors.
“You ask a lot of questions, Hellcat. No more. Not until you’ve come on my tongue, cock, and finger. Actually, no more talking until you’ve creamed all over this bed.”
He crushes his lips to mine and loosens his hold on my throat. His kiss is electricity in water, shocking, terrifying, and exciting. The soft warmth of his mouth is a complete contrast to the rough touch of his fingers as they wrap around my hair like a vise. He pulls my head back, demanding better access to my mouth. I shudder as my lips part for him, and he takes the opportunity to tangle our tongues before his sharp teeth bite into my bottom lip, leaving a mark.
“You want to kiss me or eat me?”
“Both,” he pants, grinding his hard cock against me. “I want to fuckin’ do both. Would you like that, Hellcat? You’ll be my favorite meal.”
I’m not sure what he’s alluding to, but based on that kiss, I know I’ll enjoy anything Ciaran does to me—all too much.
My hands roam down his body to the hem of his white cotton t-shirt and I tug, desperate to get every piece of clothing off him so I can feel his flesh pressed against mine. “Take this off.”
Ciaran’s fingers encircle my throat. He doesn’t squeeze like he did before. It’s more of a warning. He wants me to know he’s the one in charge here, not me.
