That would have to change soon.
It made sense she had a roommate; Stella did not seem like the kind of woman who’d do well living alone. There was something about her that was…indescribable. Something hidden beneath the surface, something begging me to find out more about her.
I was drawn to her in the strangest of ways, the most natural of ways. I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted anyone before—and that was saying something. Lincoln always said I obsess over things, and I suppose he was right to an extent, but I would swear up and down my feelings for Stella were unlike anything I’d ever felt before. I had to know more about her.
I had to see her again, had to have her tied to my bed again. This time, I’d take her pale, thin ankles and tie them so tightly she’d leave with rope burns. I wanted to taste her—to make her wriggle and writhe and scream my name.
Fuck. I was getting aroused just thinking about what I would do to her, what I craved doing to her. Work was not a good place to have an erection.
If I could’ve stopped it I would have, but I couldn’t, so I spent the next few minutes hugging myself to the counter, where I worked on slicing through chicken. The aroma of the kitchen was not enough to take me out of my mind, and I was too weak to fight the thoughts of Stella swarming through me.
Weak.
That was funny, because I was anything but weak. I was strong, physically and mentally, and I knew what I wanted in life. There were only a select few things I enjoyed, and I knew Lincoln felt the same—in that respect, we weren’t normal. However try as anyone might, if someone ever looked into our lives and our, let’s call them, hobbies, they would find no evidence of what we’d done. No evidence at all.
One of the pluses of being a cop, Lincoln assured me, along with coming from a family who dealt with that sort of thing for a living. He knew how to deal with the bodies, knew how to clean up the blood quickest. He had a system, and he refused to tell me what that system was, as a failsafe. If something ever were to happen, and somehow the clues led back to him, I would not get dragged under with him. I would still be free.
I was thankful to him for doing it, for finding me and showing me how to live this life without drawing everyone’s attention. Years ago, when I was nothing more than a weird kid of thirteen, I was just starting to dabble in the deaths of animals. More specifically, my neighbor’s dog. That damned thing never stopped barking, and if I was honest, it was my first victim because I knew its silence would make the neighborhood happy.
Get to sate my urge to kill and quiet the neighborhood. What wasn’t good about it?
Of course, it was after the neighbor’s third missing dog that they started looking at me. The neighbors had stormed around the fence separating our yards and noticed recently-dug dirt. My parents were not the type of people who cared what I did, and the lawn was my responsibility, so it was the perfect hiding place…or so my little thirteen-year-old mind had thought.
When my parents found out what I did, when the neighbors forced them to make me dig up their dead dogs, they weren’t happy. What normal parents would be thrilled at the prospect of their only son catching and mutilating the neighbor’s dogs?
It wasn’t long before my parents tried to have me committed, put into a hospital to be watched. I’d heard them talking, and I decided enough was enough. If they didn’t want me around, I wouldn’t stay. So I left. I packed a single bag and left through my bedroom window before anyone could come to take me away, before my parents could pack me into the car and drive me there. Whatever.
I was homeless for a while, begging on the streets, avoiding any location where I knew my parents might frequent. I grew my hair out, and with the dirt and grease of being homeless—and therefore shower-less—I looked far different.
It was a dark night when I first saw Lincoln. I had been asleep in an alleyway, off the streets, near another homeless man. Carl, I called him, though I was never sure if it was actually his name or not. He was missing too many teeth to understand his speech.
Lincoln was a few years older than me, but I had known that first moment what he was, what he pretended to be. He was just like me, even as he pointed to the sleeping homeless man beside me. I peeked through slit eyelids, watching as another man nodded and grabbed the homeless man, saying something about giving Carl a warm meal for free. To lure him to a second location.
Turned out, the secondary location was an abandoned warehouse that had been commandeered to suit another purpose. I followed them—it wasn’t too hard, considering their fancy black BMW stuck out like a sore thumb in the area of town we were in. I knew instantly Lincoln came from money, but it wasn’t until I hunched in the darkness, in the shadows of the warehouse and watched the scene unfold I knew where their money came from.
Death.
The homeless man’s mouth was gagged, and he was tied to a support beam. He tried to struggle, but it was pointless. The older man had talked to Lincoln as if instructing him, as if teaching him what to do.
As I listened, I realized death was not always bloody. Death did not always involve dismemberment. Death could be accidental; it could be as simple as falling down stairs or stepping out in front of a car. I learned then when Lincoln’s family was involved, death tended to happen more often.
I still liked to call them assassins, but Lincoln and his family were always vehement against the term. Too flashy, and far too illegal.
The homeless man they’d taken—my buddy Carl—was being used as instruction: where the vital organs were in a malnourished body, where to cut to have him bleed out within minutes. It was before the homeless man met his demise that Lincoln turned his head and stared straight at the shadows I crouched in. He’d known I was there the whole time.
Instead of killing me, like I thought they were going to do as the older man dragged me out and threw me on the ground before Lincoln and the restrained homeless man, Lincoln studied me, tapping the knife he held against his palm.
And then he’d given the knife to me, saying not a word.
It was all history from there, mostly bloody history. I was grateful to Lincoln and his family for taking me in, even more grateful to them for showing me how to satisfy my urges while being careful, while knowing what to do to not get caught. They didn’t often let me take marks—which was what they called their targets—because my methods were always a bit too bloody, but they let me hunt and use their resources when I needed to.
Because that’s what it was: a need. An urge, a desire. I needed to kill to live, as much of an oxymoron as it was. I needed to watch someone breathe their last breath as I lived on, had to be the one to make the final blow. The rush of power that came with ending someone’s life was a beauty most people would never know, because they were too caught up in following society’s strict moral rules.
Being unrestricted and unrestrained when it came to morals felt so good, I was surprised more people didn’t try it.
Well, some did, and they were immediately caught. I did not like to think about those people, because I thought myself better than them, I thought myself on a whole different level entirely.
It was on my first break that I went into the back room and pulled out my cell phone after washing my hands. I knew I shouldn’t call her, but I had to hear Stella’s voice. I had to feel close to her, even though there were cities between us. So I called her.
She didn’t pick up on the first ring. She probably stared at the caller ID, her eyebrows slightly together, a confused look on her face. Stella probably wondered just what the hell my name was doing flashing across her screen. I hadn’t outright given her my number.
Stella was slow to pick up, answering tentatively, “Edward?”
Oh, the timbre of her voice could soothe me eternally. Her voice could call me back from the edge of insanity. I didn’t know much about this woman, but I swore to myself that would change. I would discover everything about her, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
“It’s me,” I spoke wit
h a smile, as if she could see it. Stella herself hardly smiled, but I knew she was capable of it. She was just…so different from anyone I’d ever met. “How are you?”
Stella didn’t answer me right away; instead she asked, “How did you get my number? And why are you in my phone? I don’t remember…”
My eyes flicked around the break room. I was in here alone, and the door was shut, so I spoke honestly, “While you were naked and passed out in my bed, I found your phone. I knew I’d have to have more of you, Stella.”
Did she enjoy the sound of my voice like I did hers? I had an awful thought then. What if she didn’t want to see me again? What if last night was just one night? I couldn’t afford to think like that. Not yet.
“Edward,” she said my name again, and it was all I needed to hear. She wasn’t mad.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m planning an article.” Her answer was simple and honest, and I knew the article was about what was on the news earlier. She had been so rapt in the newscast she hardly even blinked when Lincoln shoved his dick inside of her.
“Another one about serial killers?” If only she knew who she talked to, if only she knew what I was—there would be no hesitation from her then.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I heard the sounds of bells ringing, and I waited a moment before asking, “Where are you?” I had to picture her, had to imagine where she was, though it was hard to do any of it when I couldn’t get the image of her, naked and restrained on my bed out of my head.
“I’m at a coffee shop. It’s where I do most of my writing,” she said.
I pictured her sitting alone at a table, a laptop or a tablet open in front of her, a focused look on her pretty face. Those eyes—those wondrously strange eyes—flicking back and forth as they reread and checked over what she’d written so far.
Lincoln didn’t like her eyes, but I did. I loved them.
“I need to see you again,” I said, my urgency plain. The truth was I needed to see her now, but that was impossible for a number of reasons, distance aside. I couldn’t just walk out of my job anytime I wanted.
It was a minute before she asked, “When?” Stella didn’t ask why, because she knew. Only an oblivious fool wouldn’t know why I needed to see her.
If I said tonight, would she think me needy? Would it be too soon? I didn’t want to scare her off. Though I needed her right this instant, I said, “Tomorrow night.” Not as a question but as a statement. Stella couldn’t deny me my release even if she wanted to.
And she didn’t.
I really wanted to know where she lived, but I didn’t push when she said, “I’ll meet you at the bar at seven.” And then she hung up, not one for small talk, apparently. But I didn’t mind. I had a location and a time, and I couldn’t wait to see her, let alone do more digging about her online tonight.
The day could not pass quickly enough.
Chapter Eleven - Killian
When I came back with two coffees, I found Stella putting away her phone. I’d pretended not to listen as I was in line waiting, but it was hard not to, because this place was small and the opposite of crowded and noisy. It was a quaint, quiet place, and I could understand why she liked coming here to write her articles.
Plus, it wasn’t too far from the Tribune, so when she pushed her deadlines—something she did more often than not—she didn’t have to run too far, since she didn’t have a car.
Partly my fault, I supposed. I couldn’t hire her as a full-time journalist because hiring was not my decision. I didn’t own the paper, but I had to listen to its owners when it came to staffing and assigning hours.
The owners hadn’t even wanted me to hire Stella to begin with. That had been a fight, but it was one I would gladly do again. I’d known from the first moment I met her that she was special. And no, not only because of her unique, alluring gaze.
Even when I was with Julie, I had known Stella was special, that there was more to her than most people saw. I didn’t think myself a haughty person, but I didn’t think I was like the next average Joe, either.
I really wished I wouldn’t have gotten drunk and came on to her at the Christmas party last year, and I’d give anything to take back what I said last night. Alcohol always affected me it seemed, and I was not a nice person under its influence. I should probably stop drinking altogether, and really try my hardest with Stella.
Because, even while drunk, even after walking away from her and almost getting a blowjob from another woman, she still would not leave my head.
I set her coffee down beside her laptop, sitting in the chair across from her. In spite of myself, in spite of trying to act calm and collected, I asked, “Who was that?” I watched her take a leisurely sip of her coffee—black, sugarless, and utterly disgusting. I didn’t know how she could drink it like that.
“My mom wants to know when I have off next week so I can get measured for my maid of honor dress,” Stella said, her eyes focusing on me. I noticed how she didn’t exactly answer my question, but if she wanted to hide things from me, I couldn’t blame her. She had every right not to trust me with certain details of her life, because I was just her boss.
Just her damned boss.
God, I really wished I could change that. I didn’t want to be just her boss. I wanted more. I’d wanted more from her ever since meeting her, even when I was with Julie. Never would I admit it aloud, unless it was in confidence—something I didn’t have from Stella, after the way I’d acted toward her.
I was a fucking douchebag.
“Take off whenever you need,” I said, oozing generosity I would never show to anyone else. “I’ll let you make up the hours.” Stupid, because I never let anyone make up their time, but for Stella, I was willing to break every rule.
“Thank you. I’ll tell her and then let you know what day I won’t be in.”
After taking another sip from the cup, Stella’s fingers started to type furiously on her keyboard, and I watched for a while in silence, amazed at how different she looked while she was concentrating on something.
Who the hell was I to try to stop her from writing about what she liked to write about? I gave her the go-ahead to write about what she wanted, and it just so happened she liked to write about killers. Serial killers. A bit weird, not normal by any means, but a hobby was a hobby. She was knowledgeable about them—and her online articles were our most-visited on the website, it was true.
“So what did our little jaunt to the crime scene do?” I asked, curious. We hadn’t been there for long, and I wasn’t sure what the hell she might’ve gleaned from it. Was she that good? Just a quick peek around and she knew? Or at least thought she knew?
Because, the truth was, no one really could know. No one knew what went on inside someone’s head. Sometimes a person didn’t even know what went on inside his own head. Cogs turned, wheels moved; sometimes a person was so lost in his or her own delusions they couldn’t see what was real and what wasn’t.
Minds were…fascinating things.
Maybe that’s why I liked Stella so much—I knew her mind was hiding something. I knew just from looking at her there was a part of her she hid from the world. It would probably never happen, but I wanted to be the catalyst, the spark that released whatever it was.
I wanted her.
“It told me a lot, actually,” she said, glancing to me. No matter how many times she stared at me with those eyes, I could never get over how different they were from each other. Normally heterochromia was a slight difference, wasn’t it? How many other people out there had a bright blue eye along with a warm brown one? No hints of green anywhere, no brown diluting her blue.
I knew Stella hated it when people commented on her eyes, when they acted like she was different just because her eyes were unique. I’d heard her complain about it before, which was why I never spoke a compliment to her about it aloud, and I did my best not to linger on one eye too long.
That damned blue one was a
lways calling my attention, though. It was hard to ignore its sapphire depth.
“Told you what?” I asked, flicking my gaze around the shop. There was only one other person here, a man fiddling on his phone in the corner. He was here before we got here, and it looked like the man would be here long after we left. How someone could spend their free time in a coffee shop and actually enjoy their life, I’d never know.
A small tweak of a smile graced Stella’s lips, but only for a moment. “You’ll have to wait and read the article like everyone else.” She was…almost teasing me. Her somewhat petulant tone made me grin.
Always surprising me, this one. I think I loved her, all of my stupid decisions aside.
When silence overtook us, when I could hear nothing but the tapping of her fingers against the keyboard, I straightened my back. I knew I couldn’t stay here much longer—anytime I was away during work hours, something always seemed to go wrong at the Tribune. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if the entire building caught on fire or something.
But I couldn’t leave yet. Not before clearing the air.
“Stella,” I said, waiting until her fingers slowed and she rose her stare to me. “I really am sorry about what I said last night. I shouldn’t have said it. You didn’t deserve that. It was a dick move.”
She nodded, saying nothing. She had to agree with everything I said, otherwise surely she would’ve said something.
“And as for the whole thing with Sandy—”
That she had to comment on. “I don’t care who you’re with, Killian.” Her lips thinned, a pensive look crossing her face. “But Sandy? She’s…nice enough, I guess, but for you? You deserve someone better.”
Damn right I deserved someone better. I deserved someone like Stella. Before getting drunk and letting Sandy drag me into the woman’s restroom, I hadn’t had any woman’s mouth on any part of me for months. Ever since finally breaking up with Julie. Horrible as some might think it, I had been celibate since the breakup. With any luck, my perseverance would pay off.
Cruel Black Hearts: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance Page 8
