by Layla Frost
“Maybe if you donated more, you could buy yourself out of the tour next time,” he muttered.
It may have been a joke, but it held merit. I should’ve been firmer when I’d declined their invitation, but after the tenth one, I gave in.
Okay, after the tenth one and my PR department pointing out it would be good press, I gave in. And I fucking hated the press.
But I could always use the good kind, even if I didn’t allow anyone to photograph me in the writeups. My picture splashed across the internet would make it hard to continue giving back in the other way.
The way that actually made a difference.
The head doctor giving the tour pointed out some rooms that would be upgraded or remodeled or some shit. I nodded, pretending to listen to a damn thing he said, when motion in my periphery caught my attention.
One of the entourage doctors moved near the large window to wave into the room. I glanced in, my eyes immediately landing on her.
Fuck.
Sitting away from the rest of the group, a woman returned the enthusiastic wave and thumbs up with a small smile.
A fake smile.
With her long blond hair and blue eyes, she was easily the most beautiful woman I’d seen. But it was that sadness in those big eyes that made it hard for me to tear my gaze away.
I need to find out who she is.
Usually, only work and my hobby gave me that familiar rush of adrenaline. But there was something about her.
“Ready to move on?” Dr. Davis prompted.
No.
“Lead the way.” I followed after the group, half listening to more spiels and praise and plans, but my thoughts kept drifting to that woman.
When we were finally done, Dr. Davis stopped us in the lobby. I already knew what was coming before he found his balls and said, “Alexander, our media department wants a picture of you to include with the story on our website.”
Asshole.
I had a rule about not being photographed, something I’d made them aware of. As usual, it didn’t stop them from trying.
“Craig will be happy to pose for a group photo,” I said firmly.
“But—”
“And it’ll have to be fast, we have another meeting.”
Wisely taking what he could get, Dr. Davis nodded. I stood off to the side as a handful of pictures were taken, answering a few softball questions from someone on their media team.
I was in the middle of trying to break away when she exited the elevator. She tried—and fucking failed—to blend in as she moved across the lobby, her eyes on the door. Before she could escape, someone called, “Briar.”
Briar.
Fitting name.
After a brief hesitation, she stopped as the doctor from our group went to talk to her.
Watching, I realized they weren’t just friends or doctor and patient. They were family—probably sisters. They had the same blue eyes and mannerisms, but the doctor was taller with brown hair and Briar was short and blond.
And damaged.
The doctor hugged her, though Briar didn’t return it. She started walking again, nearing the door before she let her fake smile slip.
She could become an obsession.
That was why I watched her go.
And then I followed.
Chapter Fifteen
Alive
Briar
For… nothing
“I HATE BEING startled from behind,” I stupidly blurted.
“Noted,” Alexander said.
Standing across from me.
Inside my apartment.
Why the hell was he inside my apartment?
I didn’t know much, but I did know it couldn’t be good. People didn’t just break into other people’s houses to enjoy a nice herbal tea and chat.
“Is this because I ghosted you?” I asked. He’d called and texted after our debacle of a date, but I hadn’t answered nor responded.
A man going to such lengths may be twistedly romantic in movies, but in real life, it was not.
Kinda.
Fine, it was maybe a little flattering, but I was also fucked in the head, so…
“No,” he answered.
“Then why are you here?”
“To help you.”
I was about to tell him that I’d already done the dishes and the garbage wasn’t ready to go out, so I didn’t need help. But before I could speak, he crossed his arms. My gaze dropped to what he had clutched in his gloved right hand, and I twisted to scan the table before returning my focus to the small knife.
My knife from my kit.
Was I supposed to scream? Or was it not scream? I couldn’t remember, and my brain had decided to turn into a dead fish.
I froze.
Numb.
Lost.
And—just as she’d always said—stupid.
Alexander
SHOW ME, FLOWER. Show me what I want to see.
Studying her expression closely, I wanted to see fear—no, terror. Anger. Outrage. Indignation. I wanted her to scream at me. Or scream for help.
I wanted to see some fight come into her blue eyes because that would mean, in the face of a threat, she’d realized she wanted to live.
But all I saw was confusion and shock. If anything, she was calmer than when she’d gotten home to frantically look for her kit.
What happened today?
Her stunned silence stretched until the first flicker of real emotion crossed her face.
Irritation.
It wasn’t the reaction I usually got from my targets, but it was something, at least.
Her eyes narrowed as she gave an exasperated sigh, as if my being there was simply an inconvenience. “Aria put you up to this, didn’t she? Or was it Derrick? This is some fucking scared-straight therapy method, right? You can go ahead and tell them it worked. Message received. I’ll try harder or whatever.”
“No one sent me.”
That part was the truth. No one had sent me. But the scared-straight description was pretty damn accurate.
I just hoped like fuck it worked.
“Bullshit. How else would you know about my…” Her wide gaze darted from the table to the window, putting the pieces together before shooting to me. “You’ve actually been watching me?”
I lifted my chin.
Along with the cameras in the living room and bedroom, I’d also tapped into her cell—an opportune bonus when I’d accidentally bumped into her the first day. I’d pocketed it when I’d helped her pick up the contents of her purse to install my tech before turning it in. I could hear the calls she rarely made, the voicemails she never returned, and, since she was always unknowingly sharing her screen with me, I saw the shit she scrolled through for hours.
There were advantages to being a tech nerd.
“For how long?” she asked, but there was no venom. No fear. Nothing beyond mild confusion that bordered on apathetic.
“Since the first day at the center.”
“All those times I felt…” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Why?”
Because I’m obsessed.
“Because I like to,” I said.
For the first time since finding me in her home, she finally looked outraged. Shocked, not that I was watching her but that I wanted to. Her tone cut deeper than her blades ever could as she repeated, “Why?”
Because you’re beautifully broken.
I didn’t share that, either.
“Aria or Derrick or Dr. Linda definitely sent you.” She started to laugh. “I give them points for trying something new, but this is too much. You’re—” Her words cut off abruptly as she studied me before finally whispering, “Wait. You’re not kidding.”
“No.”
“Aria didn’t send you.”
“No.”
“I’ll… I’ll scream.” There was no heat to her threat. More like she was saying what she thought was required.
“I hope you do.”
Moving closer, I stopped when my body
nearly touched hers. “Tell me to get out. Tell me this isn’t what you want, and I’ll go.”
I would, too. I’d climb through the window I’d left open, getting out before anyone saw me.
But I’d come back. Not to hurt her. But because I was already too damn obsessed to walk away for good.
Doubt filled her voice. “And leave a breathing witness who can identify you?”
“Even if you told them, who’d believe you, Briar?”
I hadn’t meant it as an insult, but her slumped shoulders and defeated expression said the truth hurt.
I never felt guilt for what I did. My targets deserved to die. They were evil. Abusers. Cheats. The worst kind of fucking garbage. They thought their power could buy them what they wanted, and they didn’t give a shit about the destruction they left behind. I did the world a favor each time I got rid of one.
But Briar was different.
Death wasn’t her punishment. It was her reward.
My gift to her.
Or it was supposed to be.
But I’d watched her too long. Too closely.
I’d allowed myself to grow attached.
Obsessed.
It made me a selfish prick, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I’d still give her something, though. Because with the way she was unraveling, I knew if I didn’t, she would do something that couldn’t be undone.
Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, I trailed my fingertips down her jaw to grip her chin and tilt it up. I choose my vague words carefully. “I’m offering you help. No guilt. No strings attached. Just help.”
She closed her eyes, not moving away from my touch. I wasn’t even sure she was aware of it. After a long moment, she opened them again.
And that’s when I saw it. Mixed within the shock and skepticism.
Longing. Relief.
She wanted the permanent peace she thought I was offering.
“Into the bathroom,” I ordered, watching for hesitation or indecision.
There was none as she turned and walked in, not glancing back to see if I followed.
“Take off your pants.” My voice was gruff with adrenaline and regret and anticipation.
And need.
Turning to face me, she finally paused. “Why?”
I ran the closed blade lightly across the front of her leg, ending at her inner thigh. My cock jerked as I lied, “Access to your artery.”
“That’ll just look like I…”
“Accidentally. And you won’t have to be the one to do it.”
Biting her bottom lip, she shoved her jeans down and kicked them to the side. It was as graceless and hurried as usual, but seeing it in person had precum beading, making my boxers stick.
“Climb into the tub.” Once she did, I kneeled next to it. “Spread your legs for me, Briar.”
She let them fall open, her eyes locked on me and not the knife I was inching closer. When I pressed it against the inside of her thigh, lining it up with one of her existing pretty scars, her hand shot out to grip my wrist.
I thought she’d changed her mind. That she was telling me to stop. I hoped like fuck she was.
“Wait.” She scrambled out of the tub and hurried from the room.
Thank fuck.
Before my relief could fully form, she was back. She flicked her wrist to open it before handing me the straight edged razor. “This one.”
She climbed back into the tub and positioned her legs just so. When I lined the new blade up, her hand stilled mine again. “Have you done this before?”
I was already taking a risk just by being there, even though no one would believe the woman with a history of mental illness over the philanthropist billionaire. But telling her the truth would increase my risk because I’d be acknowledging there were breadcrumbs that could be found and followed—no matter how improbably.
I did it anyway. “Yes.”
There was no fear in her eyes. No disgust. No horror.
Instead, her big, blue eyes were full of awe and wonder. “You’re an angel of mercy.”
I opened my mouth to correct her, but I couldn’t. I was selfish as fuck and wanted to memorize the way she looked at me. If things went well, if what I was willing to give her was enough, I’d do everything in my damn power to make sure she always looked at me like that.
Besides, her label for me wasn’t an outright lie. To the victims of the men I killed, I probably was an angel of mercy. I did what they couldn’t, giving them peace.
After a long moment, she released my wrist. Leaning back, it was the most relaxed I’d seen her—especially in the previous week.
Moving slow—both to give her time to change her mind and so I could savor it—I ran the sharp blade along her old scar. Just enough to pierce her skin.
Enough that droplets of blood danced down her soft skin.
I wished like hell I wasn’t wearing the damn gloves. That I could feel her. Her blood. Her heat. But I was already taking enough risks.
I switched to the other leg and repeated the process, that time keeping my focus on her face.
Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back. A sharp hiss mixed with a sigh as she exhaled.
I moved lower and cut a third time, just as superficial.
It seemed to take as much effort as everything else in her life, but she lifted her lids to watch me work. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t tell me to get it over with to put her out of her misery. She didn’t tell me to stop.
No, with her chest rising and falling, her legs relaxed farther.
Giving me a view of the wetness that slicked her upper thighs and made her simple yet insanely sexy cotton panties damp.
Fuck.
If irritation wasn’t a reaction I saw in my targets, arousal sure as fuck wasn’t.
Inching up, I positioned my hand against her panties as I pressed the blade to her skin. As I moved it, careful not to pierce the skin, I dragged my knuckles along her slit. Her wetness coated my glove.
I wanted more.
“Out,” I ordered.
She jolted, her eyes going wide. “What? Why?”
“The angle isn’t working.”
It doesn’t let me touch you enough.
She stood on shaking legs, and I helped her climb out. The blood from the shallow cuts was already dried by the time I got her positioned on her bed and kneeled between her spread legs.
A fucked-up worshiper praying at the altar of a damaged goddess.
Putting my hand between her thighs, I pressed the side of it to her pussy and skimmed the razor enough to draw blood. I eased back, barely teasing her slit with my knuckles as I teased her thigh with the dull edge.
I repeated the pattern again and again. Hard enough to draw beads of blood then light as a feather.
While I played with her, she didn’t verbally speak, but her body said a hell of a lot. Her hips lifted, pushing herself closer as her wetness slicked her thighs.
She wanted more.
I held the razor away as I covered the top of her pussy with my hand, slowly working her clit through her panties with the heel of my palm. Without the distraction of pain, I kept my touch light in case she freaked out or told me to stop. She didn’t do either. She rocked herself against me, starting slow and tentative before growing more demanding.
Giving in to her silent plea, I increased the pressure as I sliced along her inner thigh—deeper than the others but not by much. She let out a soft moan as her movements turned desperate.
Eyes locked on the crimson dripping down her pale thigh, I roughly bit out, “Shirt off, Briar.”
She didn’t question why as she yanked it over her head, leaving her in only a pretty bra and soaked panties. Her objection came when I took my touch away, making her shoot forward to reach for me.
I’d thought her look of admiration was an unbeatable high, but her reaching for me was almost enough to make me lose the tight control I had over myself and her.
“Settle, flower,” I whispered
as I tugged my gloves off, needing to feel her without the barrier.
Risk be mother-fucking-damned.
I dragged the dull side of the blade up her outer thigh, watching her breath come faster and her nipples harden under her thin bra. Sliding it under the side of her panties, I pulled the fabric taut and cut through it before repeating on the other side.
The ruined fabric slid down, leaving her bare and spread and so fucking perfect.
Stretching my body over hers, I used an arm to hold myself above her so we weren’t touching. I teased the razor’s handle up her stomach and under her bra before cutting it away, too.
I was about to shift back when she moved, gripping my forearms as she lifted her hips to press herself against me. Shocked as hell, I nearly put enough force on the blade to slice between her perfect tits.
Based on her wide eyes and parted fuckable lips, it was clear she was just as surprised by her action.
But she didn’t back away. She didn’t release me. And she didn’t stop tormenting me with that pretty pussy rubbing against my torso. Even once I repositioned myself so it was my fabric covered dick hovering over her, she ground herself harder. Her moan of frustrated pleasure mixed with a gasp of pain—likely from her raw cuts rubbing my pants.
That wasn’t enough to make her stop. It was the opposite. She wrapped her legs around me, squeezing her thighs to increase the sting.
Giving her my weight, I took her mouth in the bruising kiss I’d been fantasizing about since the first time I saw her in that clinically cold therapy room, damaged and sad and checked out. There was nothing checked out about her right then. She gave back as good as she got, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood.
I reached between us to undo my pants but froze when her pussy rubbed against my hand. Twisting my wrist at a painful angle, I didn’t give a damn if I broke it so long as I felt her. I ran my middle finger up to circle her clit before sliding into her tightness.
Fucking Christ, I’m gonna come from touching her.
Doing something stupid—and not giving a damn—I set the closed razor to the side so I could free my cock without having to pull my finger out of heaven. Briar didn’t seem to notice I’d put it down much less reach for it.
I tore my mouth away from hers as I put my hand on her inner thigh, spreading it wider so I could watch while I fingerfucked her. I ran my thumb softly along one of her fresh cuts… But it wasn’t fresh enough.