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The damn lighter found on our fourth vic, the same as the one Blackwell took from me.
A link between our dead woman and Broderick Stevens.
With the same symbol tattooed on Gabriel Blackwell’s back.
“How about you tell me more about what you do?” I press, shoving my hands underneath my legs. “How did you get into the business of death?”
His lips are a thin hard line and his gaze hooded, all that black hair tousled and hiding half of his profile. I might as well talk to a brick wall.
“Do you enjoy it? Killing? Do you take pleasure in marking your victims before you end their life or are you nothing but a trained ape doing what your master tells you?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches but otherwise Gabriel gives nothing away.
“The fingers are going to start pointing to you if it gets out about the lighter,” I say. And that finally gets a reaction out of him. Well, a clench of the jaw, but still. “Yeah, that’s right. A Black Market Syndicate lighter. Your calling card. The dead hookers are marked in your style. Don’t think I didn’t notice. That’s why you wanted to talk to me, right? I won’t be the only one who figures it out. If you give me answers now, I might be able to—”
I break off.
To what?
There’s no way in bloody hell any of the higher-ups would make a deal with a man like Blackwell. Not even to get to the bigger fish in the pond. Gabriel is a cold-blooded killer and looking at him makes it difficult to remember that.
Only I, with my shattered mind and my fucked-up moral compass, would get into a vehicle with the reaper. Would lick my lips and fantasize, just a little, about his body.
Not just his body, a small inner voice corrects.
It’s his aura. As fucking arrogant as he seemed the first time I saw him, I wonder now if the arrogance is the same kind of face I like to don. Oh, he’s got a big ego, no doubt about it, which matches with the rest of him. Blackwell is apresence. A fucking force of nature in the same destructive way as a hurricane or a tornado. Leaving just as many casualties in his wake.
Gabriel finally maneuvers the car into the furthest space of an empty lot between buildings, swerving to avoid potholes before slamming on the brakes. Hard enough to jerk me forward and cut off any lingering questions I might want to ask, questions I have no hope of having answered.
I want to curse and ask him what the fuck his problem is. I want to do a lot of things.
I slowly unhook the seat belt, ignoring the sting of pain in my shoulder where it dug deep.
“You’re going to have to talk with me eventually,” I tell him in an undertone. “Otherwise what’s the point of this?”
There’s no air in the SUV.
The child locks are engaged on the windows, too.
Gabriel still makes no move to look at me and I switch into instinct mode, falling back into familiar patterns. Reaching for him and running my hand along his leg in a light seductive touch that’s sure to get him.
His hand snakes out and grabs my wrist immediately. “I didn’t tell you that you could touch,” he says gruffly.
My stomach flutters.
“I don’t need your permission.” In fact, I’m never the one who asks for permission. I’m the one who grants it.
“In this case, you do.”
I do my best to jerk away from him but his grip on my wrist is incredibly strong. Gabriel moves with intentional slowness until he’s facing me and lifts my arm into the air between us.
“Let go,” I command through gritted teeth.
“Ask me nicely. Say please.” He smiles and, oh damn, it’s like being hit by a bus.
Desire strong enough to curl my toes snakes up through my core and I’m caught in his stare. The intensity of his expression and the full pout of his lips. His smile warms further and the cockiness smothers the rush of lust, thankfully. Frustration pushes against my chest and I trap it while struggling to free myself.
“I don’t have to ask you for shit,” I reply. Pissed at myself at the slightly breathy quality of my voice.
