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It hits me then: my fingerprints are everywhere.
Panic batters in my gut. I can’t get caught. I can’t go to prison.I can’t be caged again.
“Oh, God…” I rush toward the kitchen, grab one of his hand towels, and wrap the knife in it before stuffing it in my pocket.
I don’t know where else I left evidence. I don’t even know how to get rid of it.
But I know someone who does. The thought of calling him pains me, but I have no choice. I have to trust he’ll keep this between us and not kill me for it.
My fingers shake as I find his name in my cell and call. It rings and rings, and he finally answers.
“Yeah?”
“Michael?” I sniffle. “I—I need your help. I did something…something bad, and I can’t fix it alone.” I pause with a soft cry. “I’m sorry.”
His breathing is heavy across the line, and for one moment I’m afraid he’ll tell me to fuck off.
But instead, he says, “Address. Now. And don’t touch anything.”
Too late.
ADRIEL
Well, well. I didn’t see this coming.
Kayla is a little killer.
She already has a way of surprising me. Something no one has ever managed to do. But a stripperanda murderer? She only continues to intrigue me.
Have there been others, or is this her first time? Did she like how it felt? Did she feel remorse? Or was it satisfaction?
She didn’t realize I followed her after I stopped that man from hurting her like he did her friend.
She didn’t see my face, and that was intentional. I don’t want her to see it. To know who I am. Seeing me will only make it harder for me to watch her from a distance. And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Little wolf needs someone to keep an eye on her when she hunts.
And sheisa hunter, whether she knows it yet or not. I can see it there in her eyes as she stares at the dead body with a cold glower.
What happened to her? What made her this way?
Did she grow up like me? Did she have parents who didn’t give a shit? Or was she born this way? More nature than nurture?
From the window, I continue to curiously observe her, wondering, waiting to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.
She called someone, though. I heard a name. Is that who she’s waiting for?
About thirty minutes later, I get my answer when a black SUV shows up, and another behind it. Two guys roll out of the first and four from the other.
I slink behind the shed, spotting them entering the house. Returning to the window, I see her throw her arms around the neck of one of the men, though from this angle I can’t see him well.
Tentatively, he closes his arms around her in a brief hug before he looks at the damage she’s caused.
“What did he do?” His words stomp out of him.
As he continues to speak, my pulse kicks up. Because I recognize it.
No way. It can’t be.
But when he pivots toward me and I catch the thick scar on his right cheek, his eyes almost black, there’s no mistaking him.
