by Trisha Wolfe
A thrill seizes my chest. “You noticed that?”
He nods leisurely. “I noticed everything.”
I uncross my ankles and make like I’m going to cross my legs, but instead, I relax back onto my hands, inching my thighs open. Grayson’s gaze drops to the apex between my thighs. I can feel the heated, tangible press of his stare as he licks his lips.
“So fucking sexy,” Grayson says. “Isn’t she sexy?”
Larry nods.
“Touch yourself,” Grayson says to me.
An immediate ache blooms in my core at his command. As I slip my hand beneath my black skirt, I see only Grayson. The man who challenged my sanity and brought me back from the brink. I’m alive—truly alive—only when I’m with him.
Grayson’s chest rises and falls as he watches me, matching my own heavy breaths. The intensity in his eyes pulls at the ache in my back, the throb so deep and hot I can’t help but rock my hips against the hard container.
He grabs ahold of Larry’s hair and tugs his head back. “Beware,” Grayson says, his voice a low threat. “She’s a temptress. Seduction is one of her skills. Just look at her… Don’t you want her? Don’t you crave her?”
Larry remains silent. The bulge in his pants speaks to his arousal despite his lack of voice.
Grayson sighs, long and breathy. “The truth is, Larry. You’re not worthy. She could snap your mind like a twig without breaking a sweat, then have you groveling at her feet, begging her to do it again, before you slit your own throat just to make the torment end.”
Moonlight bleeds in from a dirty window, catching the blade as Grayson flicks it back and forth, back and forth, silver glinting.
“Maybe neither of us are worthy,” Grayson continues, “but you’re absolutely fucking beneath her.”
The blade slips down to Larry’s throat. Larry is shaking now. A muddle of curses and prayers fall from his mouth, melding together incoherently. And Grayson’s intense stare is aimed on me.
Just as I selected a key to end a man’s life before, Grayson is waiting for me to decide. Either way, Larry cannot leave here alive. He knows who we are. He knows too much. He will die by one of our hands.
Or by both.
I ease off the unit and move toward Grayson, summoned to him like light to a black hole. Only I’m a volunteer—his gravitational pull captured me willingly.
He towers above, face drawn in sharp angles and contrasting beauty, as I place myself directly opposite my lover, my fiend. With our victim between us, I lay my hand over Grayson’s and, holding his unwavering gaze, drag the blade across the rapist’s throat.
It’s not an easy kill. It takes strength. My grip on Grayson’s hand is steady and firm as I force the blade deep, slicing through cartilage. Memories of steel hitting bone assault me. The vibration ricochets through the blade as it cuts through muscle and tendon…and suddenly I’m back in that dark basement. My father’s hand covering mine as he takes a life.
Understanding dawns. Grayson never does anything impulsively. The victim selection; the hasty kill; the warehouse. All my choices, but always by his design.
Where I was molded into a killer against my will, Grayson is liberating me of that experience. Reinventing it; making it ours.
I’m engrossed, drugged. There’s a moment of shocked uncertainty that graces the victim’s expression before blood beads in a dark-red line across his neck. It then streams down his throat, a thick river coating his chest with a shiny red lacquer. His wet gurgle echoes around the enclosed space.
Warmth spreads over the back of my hand. The wet heat of blood. Copper mists the air, the scent of murder an aphrodisiac.
I’m watching our victim, but Grayson is watching me. I can feel his eyes boring through me, taking in every movement, every response.
Grayson releases the body, and it crumples to the tarp. He lets our victim fall unceremoniously without an afterthought. My gaze flicks up to meet Grayson’s as a hungry pang ricochets through my body. The ache builds, ravenous, demanding to be filled. As Grayson steps around the pool of blood, his penetrating gaze drilling me, that ache pushes deeper, arching my back.
He stalks me like a hunter, like he’s starving, and drops the blade before he captures my hips and hauls me up into his arms. I’m so close already. Trembling, on the brink, barely able to hold onto his shoulders as he moves us toward the container.
His movements are primal. Need dictating. He lays me down on the steel surface and pushes my skirt up, his fingers leaving a trail of red in their wake. My skirt and panties are tugged down my thighs in one swift action.
He doesn’t ask—he doesn’t need to; the question of whether I’m aroused by our kill is answered as he tastes me, my body giving him proof where words fail. We’re beyond simple communication. Our desire only answered in raw, carnal flesh and blood.
As soon as he drops between my thighs, his mouth surrounding me, I spike with unadulterated need. A sharp pulse spears the ache deeper, a pain so pleasurable I grit my teeth as every muscle contracts, my core clenching to be fulfilled.
Grayson looks up from between my legs as he devours, watching the wave crest over me. I break with a single flick of his tongue, too stimulated to stop the crash. But I’m not sated. Far from it. The external orgasm only heightens my need to feel him inside me.
“I need you.” It comes as a breathy plea, but Grayson is already in motion to claim what’s his.
He braces a hand on the container as his other reaches for the closure of his jeans. I glimpse his hard length as he lowers the zipper, my sex throbbing with renewed want at the erotic sight.
“You taste like sin,” he says as he hovers above. Then he hooks an arm beneath my lower back, decidedly placing me at the perfect angle.
No holding back. Grayson enters me in one forceful thrust, sealing his mouth over mine to swallow my cry. I latch on to his neck, clinging to him as he fills the void. My thighs quiver from the impact, my breasts ache to feel the abrasive rub of his chest.
He grips my hips and slams inside me again, harder, his kiss stealing oxygen from my lungs. I work at his buttons, desperate to remove all barriers between us, just as he pushes my blouse up to reveal me fully.
I yank at the collar, breaking the kiss as I finally shove the shirt over his shoulders. Then I place my palm against his bare chest. The feel of the rough, slanted scars—the number of his kills—sends an arousing tremor rocketing through my body as he buries himself deep.
That frantic desperation returns, insatiable. The frenzy consumes us—more, closer, not enough. Never enough. Once his shirt is stripped from his arms, I fight to get closer, my chest seeking that vital friction. His groan ricochets through me as he grabs my backside and wrenches me hard against him, lifting me off the steel.
Legs locked around his trim waist, I undulate my hips, riding him as he braces against the only solid surface to keep us from falling. It feels dirty, and raw, and like fucking perfection.
His fingers snake into my hair to gain a firm grasp as he meets each rock of my hips. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re fucking breaking me.”
My body responds to his claim, clenching around his cock, my nails raking down his back. “More,” I demand.
He hauls me away from the container and anchors his arm around my back, slamming inside me with hard, carnal thrusts that detonate my control. I muffle my moans against his neck, my teeth finding purchase in his skin, loving the way his pulse speeds against my tongue. The metallic trace of blood fills my mouth, and I’m not sure if it’s his or mine—if I broke his skin or bit my lip—but it sends me over the edge.
We’re like vampires sucking each other dry; liquid fire sears our blood as we bleed each other, draining our veins. The pain is the only answer to quench the need that pleasure can’t sate.
Grayson’s back flattens against a support beam, his thrusts coming wild and unrestrained. My hand goes to his neck as I search for that racing heartbeat, to get as close to him as possible. Hi
s eyes flare. “Do it,” he challenges.
I wrap my fingers tighter, and he sinks to the floor, settling me atop him. I grind and fuck him with abandon as his pulse quickens against my palm.
Power.
The thrill of taking a life—of owning it—feeling it literally slip through your fingers…
His growl vibrates through my whole body as his cock hardens and pulsates along my walls. I release his throat, freeing his orgasm and mine. I ride the blissful wave of ecstasy as I rock into him.
His heavy breaths fan my face, his features creased in the most beautiful display of agony and pleasure. We’re hedonists—and we’re unashamed.
He’s braced against the beam and cold, hard floor like he’s immune to the elements—like he’s used to them. Grayson spent a year in prison, but it’s more…goes deeper than that.
I touch him. Starting at his fingers, the very tips of his nails. I touch his rough hands, the contrast of smooth and abraded scars, the tattoos covering his arms. I feel the muscles beneath his flesh, still contracting as his breathing evens out.
My hands slip along his shoulders and onto his chest, mapping the leanly defined muscles there, the scars carved so deep. I work my way over his body, and he lets me, a wonder in his gaze that spears me.
“Has anyone ever touched you this intimately?” I ask.
His neck muscles tighten with a hard swallow, and I feel the intensity of it under my palm as I roam up his neck. “Never,” he says, his voice thick.
“I want to know every part of your body,” I say, my fingers coming to rest below his mouth. I sweep my finger across his bottom lip, loving the softness, the hunger that surges within me to kiss him.
I move in slowly, capturing his mouth and tasting him lovingly, as if we’re sharing a secret—sharing an insight into each other no one else can access.
As I pull back, I feel the press of his strong hand over my chest, my heart. “It’s beating faster than mine,” he acknowledges. “Does that mean you’re in love with me?”
“Do you need the declaration?”
“Yes,” he says honestly.
“I’m in love with you, Grayson. I’m not incapable of love…I’ve just never been inspired before now. And I don’t want to be separated from you again.”
He ponders my answer for a moment, never taking his hand away. Then: “Do you still question whether I’m capable of loving you?”
I glance at the massacre we created together, and he forces my face back to him. So he can see the answer in my eyes. I take his hand in mine, removing his grip from my jaw. Our hands are still smeared with traces of blood.
“No,” I say, barely above a whisper.
His gaze narrows in question. “But there’s some doubt.”
“Only because of my insight, Grayson. Because of what the mind dictates. But I believe you love me. In your own way. That you will try to protect me.”
“Am I capable of hurting you just the same?”
I can’t hesitate here. “Yes.”
With a deep inhale, he accepts this. We’re not like any other couples, arguing to make a point. Some things have to be accepted, especially if we’re unable to change the outcome.
He catches me studying his eyes and, delicately, he removes the lenses, revealing the vibrant blue of his irises. My chest tightens.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits.
I lay my hand over his chest, feeling the furious pulse of his beating heart. “I know that, too.”
Love and obsession are so closely linked, the emotions evoked by obsession easily mistaken for love. And when obsession rules your world, you become a slave to its demands.
Grayson has no experience with emotions on the extreme spectrum. His response could be volatile. The mind and body take mercy on each other, one numbing the other when physical or mental pain becomes too much.
Grayson suddenly experiencing an extreme emotional breakthrough is akin to a burn victim suddenly regaining sensation in nerve endings. Only instead of a merciful death, the mind would shatter.
I close my eyes against the thought, and Grayson pulls me tighter to him, bringing me back. “I haven’t hunted a single victim since I left you that morning.”
His admission catches me off-guard. I drag his arms around me, shielding myself from the chilly air. “But the murder in Brunswick? Minneapolis? The reports said—”
“Seems I have a copycat.”
He says it flippantly, but lethal agitation brims beneath his cool exterior. Most serial killers aren’t flattered by an imitator. Rather, it’s an insult.
“Do you know—?”
“No.” He shakes his head lightly. “Not yet. But I will.”
Of course, if Grayson knew who the imitator was, they’d already be eliminated.
“This could further complicate things, or…” I again look at our victim, only now in a new light. The rapist could serve a bigger purpose. “We need to dispose of the body.”
“I need to,” Grayson emphasizes. “You need to return to your life.”
But I’m already thinking beyond that. My gaze snags every detail of the warehouse, and I realize it’s not just a vacant building. It was once a mechanic garage. “This place has far more potential.”
“I love the look on your face right now,” Grayson says as he feathers my hair over my shoulder delicately. “Like someone is about to suffer.”
I find his eyes, enlightened. “Is this what it feels like when you design your traps? When everything slides into place and you know it will work.”
“That depends. What do you feel?” His question burns with honesty. He truly desires to know, to experience what I’m feeling.
“It feels holy—like an epiphany.”
“Epiphany,” he repeats, a calm expression softening the sharp lines of his features. That rare dimple carves his cheek. “You were my epiphany.”
I fall into him then. Completely. Lost in the blue of his eyes, the softness of his lips, and the red staining our hands. A beautiful and brutal epiphany that could save us, or damn us further, blooms to life right here in the darkness that spawned us.
3
Origination
Grayson
Murder.
Is the desire to take life in our DNA? A hereditary trait passed down through generations. Or is it a malfunction of the brain? All those misfiring neurons. Or is it something more—something other—that which can’t be assimilated in a lab?
Nature or nurture.
The age-old question of scientists and doctors the world over.
Yet it’s a tired question. A boring one. And the answer doesn’t affect the outcome. Just ask Dr. London Noble. The doctor who shattered my reality. The woman who wormed her way into my decaying soul and resurrected me. Like a phoenix born from ash, I’m a new man.
Because of her, the question no longer plagues me.
Because of me, she has accepted her nature.
The only surety is that once you commit the act of murder, it’s in your blood. You have a taste for the kill. You crave it like an alcoholic craves the next drink.
One is never enough.
The late-night sky over Rockland is black with a dusting of city lights casting a hazy glow across the horizon. I’m in Larry’s car—the one he had parked at the Blue Clover. Larry is in the trunk.
I’m breaking one of my rules to only use public transportation while in Maine. Some of the most careful and meticulous criminals have been brought down by senseless traffic violations. Bundy. Kraft. Son of Sam. But right now, it’s a necessary risk.
I don’t construct a trap after the fact. It’s much harder to build a story, to link pieces together and create a design, once a kill is complete. You’re left with limited options. And mistakes.
It’s like working backward. Designing in reverse. But London and I are fashioning something new—something messy and brilliant all at once. It will have to be formed and realized as our story unfolds.
I admi
t, despite my nature to be meticulous, this excites me.
The way she lit up when she spoke… How can I deny her this? Even if I know the chances for success are low. I’ve calculated the odds. If we fail—which we most likely will—it will still be a spectacular finale.
Her ingenious plan? Bring the copycat to us.
To do so, we need a big enough lure. A bright and shiny baited hook that he can’t resist.
Larry’s glittering metallic shirt is a nice touch of irony.
I pull into the densest part of a wooded park. It’s too late for anyone to be around, but you never know when a group of teens or a pair of drunk lovers will decide to take advantage of the same privacy.
I have ten minutes to stage the scene.
Remove Larry from the trunk. Prop him against a bench. Wearing a pair of Latex gloves, scrawl RAPIST across his chest with his own congealed blood. Curl his hand into a claw and scrape his nails down my arm. This has to be done now, before rigger sets in. Then drive the car onto the gravel and backtrack to remove footprints and tread marks.
There is no lust in setting a scene; it’s business. Heightened emotion can’t be involved. There’s no room for error.
I take Larry’s car into downtown, where I park five blocks from the nightlife scene. It’s not much of one, but even a small coastal city has a watering hole. I now have twenty minutes. I locate a bar with no cameras. Wearing Larry’s obnoxious metallic shirt, I mingle with a group of women in the club, making derogatory comments they’re sure to remember. Then I order a round of drinks for the women and myself, placing the order on Larry’s credit card. I close out the tab and leave the card there before I exit the bar.
The moment Larry paid with cash at the Blue Clover, he made this possible.
Within thirty minutes, I’ve planted Larry’s whereabouts. Witnesses will describe my facial features and the metallic shirt—getting the two interwoven. This is fine; eye witness accounts are often unreliable. The police will assume it’s a combination of alcohol and seeing two men at the same place. They’ll put two and two together, and ta-da. How smart they are, linking the suspect and victim together.