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I grind my thigh harder between her legs. Whatever grim instinct is calling me to her—is it affecting her too? Is her cunt wet and pulsing with the bloodlust of it? Does she want to hurt me as much as I want to hurt her; does she want to bite into me the way I want to bite into her?
Given the opportunity, would she fuck me to destroy me?
“I would love nothing more than for you to try, Lynch.”
“I know you would, you sick fuck.” Her voice is short and breathless. Whether it’s the fever or desire or a dangerous cocktail of both, I can’t tell. “I’ll hunt you if that’s what you want, Luca. I’ll make you squeal like the pig you are.”
Her words send a rush of liquid heat through me, bubbling lava under my skin. I’m always cold, but my entire body burns as if Willow’s fever slithered from underneath her skin to burrow into mine. My self-control has slipped further out of my grip than it ever has.
I know better than this.
I hold her gaze for a moment longer before releasing her completely, stepping back and breaking the invisible rush of heat between us.
Her hand drops from my neck, falling limply to her side. She’s trembling, whether from sickness or excitement, I don’t know. Certainly not fear—I don’t think Willow is capable of fear—yet.
“February,” I say after I’ve steadied my voice. “Choose the day.”
“Fifteenth,” she says immediately. She’s holding on to the sink behind her as if she might fall if she didn’t. “Fifteenth February—Thursday.”
Fifteenth February—where do I remember this date from?
Oh yes. Her birth certificate.
“It’ll be my honour to make it the worst birthday of your life,” I tell her with my most courteous smile.
“You’ve got stiff competition,” she replies.
I glance down at her arms, the silver lines, but look back up at her face without letting my smile falter.
“It’s a good thing I thrive in competitive environments.”
With a smirk, I turn away, leaving her standing there, naked, vulnerable, yet oddly defiant still—always. The thrill of the hunt courses through me, and all that hunger inside me still burns bright and ravenous. I might have let her slip from my grasp this time, but next time, I’ll shoot her out of the fucking sky and tear the carcass of her to pieces before she ever hits the ground.
19
Mal-Parry
Willow
The week after I’verecovered well enough to feel half-human again, I decide to pull myself together. Go back to work, get back to mining for information. Richard Thornton is still somewhere in England, harboured by some rich fucks who don’t care about the things he did, the lives he destroyed. The day I wrote his name on my list—the first name I ever wrote—I swore to myself I wouldn’t rest until it was crossed off.
Vengeance isn’t just a promise I made myself. It’s the generator around which the broken machinery of me functions. Without it, something tells me I would fall apart.
So I keep going—just like I have for years.
Now, all the other names are crossed off and his is the only one left. It taunts me every time I open my notebook, reminding me of my old promise. And even when I forget, my arms are the onlyreminders I need. Lines like a tally. I count them, and it reminds me of what I have to do and why I have to do it.
It’s time to get back to work and find the fucker that started it all.
But first, I need to make up for the money I lost while I was unable to work. Luckily for me, I happen to have a nice little payout waiting for me—I just need to claim it.
So I go looking for Luca. It’s a Thursday evening, so according to his monkly routine, he’ll be in his fancy gym to the side of his house. Well, not house—compound. A creepy compound for a creepy fucker.
I make my way into his gym, which is a sort of wide white room, mirrors on one side and smooth wood flooring with long strips running down the length of the room. On the other side, there are some benches, a row of long pointy swords and white masks with mesh visors. I realise what I’m standing in straight away.
Luca Fletcher-Lowe, apparently, has his own fencing salle.
Fencing—the most pretentious of all sports.
