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But there it was again, that flicker of curiosity, the what-if that gnawed at the edges of my resolve. What if Gavin wasn't like my ex? What if he was just a guy, maybe even a decent one, captivated by my work? What if?—
Stop it, Celeste. I snapped, clenching my fists. Remember how well 'what ifs' worked out last time? No, Gavin St. James was a complication, an equation where the variables spelled disaster. I knew better than to get mixed up in that. I had to.
"God, I need a drink," I grumbled, but the thought of alcohol made my stomach churn. Instead, I grabbed a glass of water, gulping it down like it could wash away the mess in my head.
"Next Friday," I whispered to myself, the date hanging ominously in the air. A dinner with Gavin that felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes—tempting and terrifying all at once.
Chapter 5
Nash
Isliced through flesh and bone with precision. This guy, this waste of breath that lay in pieces on my tarp, had once thought he was untouchable. He mowed down innocent lives with his car, a PRIDE parade of vibrant colors contaminated by blood. He'd walked free, but justice has a way of catching up, especially when it has fangs to spare.
"Rot in hell," I muttered under my breath, the sound of steel scraping against bone filling the otherwise silent room. My hands, smeared with crimson, moved methodically, dismembering what was left of the murderer. No remorse. No second thoughts. Just another night's work.
Yet, as I worked, my mind wasn't on the task at hand. It was on her—my anonymous blog woman. She hadn't responded yet. The connection we shared, or I thought we did, laid silent, and it gnawed at me more than the gristle beneath my blade.
The anticipation bubbled into a fierce anger that clawed at my insides. Every minute without her reply was like a taunt, a whisper in the dark that she might just be another lie. And I was done with lies.
My phone sat silent, untouched, and unlit on the cold metal table. It mocked me, that goddamn piece of tech. A portal to her, to that dark, intoxicating soul I found solace in, and it was as quiet as the grave I was sending this bastard to.
"Fuck!" I slammed my fist onto the table, next to the phone, not caring for the splatter of red that painted the screen. I needed her response like a starving man needed a meal, like a predator needed the hunt. She was under my skin, her words, her darkness... everything about her. And she was silent.
I hissed, my patience snapping like the tendons I was severing. My urges surged, darker, hungrier, fueled by the frustration that coiled tight in my chest. Her silence was a catalyst, and I knew I was close to the edge, teetering on a cliff that could send me spiraling into an abyss from which there'd be no return.
With one final cut, the job was done. I stood back, surveying my work, the indifference a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. I should've felt something, satisfaction perhaps, but all I felt was the void where her words should have been.
"Answer me," I whispered to no one, to the night itself, like it could compel her to break her silence. But there was nothing—just the echo of my own voice and the emptiness that begged to be filled with her darkness, her twisted understanding of who, or what, I really was.
Where the fuck are you? The question was a plea, a demand, a prayer to whatever gods entertained the wishes of monsters like me. I wiped my blade clean, the action mechanical and empty. I needed her response, or I'd be lost, consumed by the very urges that drove my blade.
And in that craving, I knew, I was already hers.
Islammed the trunk shut, the dull thud mingling with the sounds of Chicago's nightlife that seeped into the dark alley. The air was thick with grime and the stench of decay—I could taste it on my tongue, coppery and bitter as my mood.
The weight of my fury clawed at me, urging me to lose myself in the violence that beckoned like an old friend—or more accurately, a relentless demon perched on my shoulder. A killing spree would be easy, a way to unleash the plague that brewed within me. But no, I couldn’t. My brother's memory served as a silent sentry, his legacy a line I refused to cross. He had died believing in something better, and damned if I'd tarnish that with needless bloodshed.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket as I stalked away from the scene. The city's sins called to me, they promised numbness in the form of amber liquid and a chance to drown out her silence.
The bar was small, its sign flickering like a beacon for lost souls seeking shelter in oblivion. Perfect. I pushed through the door, the hinges squealing their protest as dim light washed over me, briefly illuminating the predator lurking beneath this disguise of civilization.
"Whiskey, neat," I ordered, my voice barely rising above the hum of conversation and the clinking of glass. The bartender, a burly man, poured the drink without comment, sliding it across the worn wooden surface. I welcomed the burn as it slid down my throat, the fire a temporary fix for the chaos that churned inside.
"Another," I commanded after downing the first with ease. The second drink followed the first, and then a third. The alcohol numbed the edges of my anger but did little to fill the void left by her absence. With each sip, the image of her—of what she represented—grew sharper, a focal point in the blur of my existence. She had to answer, to give me something to cling to amidst this rage and longing. Her silence wouldn't last forever. It couldn't. Because one way or another, I'd find her. And when I did, the game would change.
The clink of ice against glass punctuated the haze of my thoughts, sharp and insistent. She sashayed over, all curves and confidence, with a look in her eye that said she knew just what she wanted. She smelled like vanilla and sin, a combination that would've driven me wild any other night.
"Hey, handsome," she purred, sliding into the seat beside me. "Mind if I buy you a drink?"
I flicked a glance at her, taking in the tumble of chestnut hair and the plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. Beautiful? Hell yes. My type? Not tonight. Not ever again, if it wasn't her.
"Save your money, sweetheart," I grumbled, nursing the whiskey in my hand. "I'm not in the market for company."
"Too bad," she teased, leaning closer so that the fabric of her dress brushed against my arm. "I was hoping for a little... distraction."
"Find someone else to play with," I shot back, the edge in my voice sharper than the knife I'd used earlier. The one that still had flecks of blood drying on the blade, hidden away where no one could find it.
She huffed, flipping her hair as she stood up in a huff. "Your loss," she declared before strutting off, hips swaying indignantly.
