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chapter eleven
So this was the writer.
Connelly Davis.
Coming here every night, sleeping on the porch.
Ruining everything.
He stared down at the man, his lip curling in disgust as he cataloged each of the writer’s features. Dark hair. Straight nose. Strong jaw. Evenly spaced features. Long eyelashes. Just like the photo still crumpled in his jacket pocket.
Did his muse find the writer handsome?
The thought made his blood boil.
It would be so easy to slide a blade under that stubbled jaw and open him up, watch him bleed out. It would be messy as hell but so very satisfying.
He took out his knife and knelt over the sleeping man, leaning close enough that he could feel each warm exhale.
So easy...
But as he hovered the sharp edge over the writer’s throat, something inside him held back. Was it fear? No, he was never afraid. It was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Maybe curiosity?
He’d never had a rival before. His past muses never had anyone protecting them. This could be an exhilarating challenge. The next logical step of his evolution.
He sheathed his knife and eased off the porch, careful not to make any sound. He knew he should leave before the writer woke up, but he needed to see her.
His beautiful, broken Veronica.
Just a glimpse.
He slipped around the side of the house to her bedroom window. The blinds had been drawn, but the slats were cracked just enough that he could see her on the bed. He pressed his gloved hand to the glass.
Soon, he promised silently. Soon he’d set her free.
She sat up and looked right at the window. The big black and brown dog next to her also lifted its head and seemed to zeroed in on him with scarily intelligent eyes.
Shit, he’d forgotten about the dog.
Time to go.
As he faded back into the shadows, he thought of the book. He still had it. Had read it cover-to-cover, studied every sentence, analyzed every gory detail.
The writer’s mind was as twisted as his.
A new plan took shape in his mind.
He was tired of watching. It was time to play.
But for now, he would let the writer live.
Let them both live.
Just for a little while longer.
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