by Jade Eby
And you are mine, Asher.
Diana looked down at her shaking hands. “Obsessions never turn into happy endings.”
“Is that what you want, a happy ending?” He asked, tilting his head to the side.
She turned to the mirror and placed her back to him. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
He remained there, his reflection only a dark, faceless figure in the mirror.
“Are you not going to answer the question?” he asked.
“What was it?”
“Do you want a happy ending with me?”
“I don’t think it’s possible.” She struggled with putting her new lipstick on. Every time she brought her hand to her mouth, a shiver ran through her body and she got the dark red makeup on her chin.
It looked like drops of blood, and all Diana wanted to do was scream.
“I’ll be downstairs.” Asher left the room.
And still
those screams
roared
and
scraped
against her skull.
Three
Asher
Maxwell Grayson was a jackass,
and
Asher’s next victim.
Maxwell had a thing for Halloween. He firmly believed ghouls and ghosts should be celebrated all year long.
In a way, Asher agreed. Cupid was a monster, a ghoul, a ghost weaving in and out of people’s lives to fix what was broken. He most certainly should be celebrated all year long.
Maxwell held charity events almost every month for his foster home and themed each party. His Witches’ Brew was in November on his large estates, where artisan-brewing companies flew in to provide their new beers for tasting and auctioning. On the south end of Ovid Island in December, he threw a gala called Santa’s Haunted Pole. Nude women painted in green and red strolled the event with bruised faces and fake scars all over their arms. In their hands, they held paintings for sale by local artists.
All the money went to his foster kids.
In January, Maxwell hosted the Monster’s Ball at Ovid Island’s art museum. The tickets cost close to a thousand to attend, and Asher never saw the point of it all. People just got dressed up in gowns and suits to watch others, poorer people from Miami’s mainland, prance around in horror costumes.
Again, all the money went to Maxwell’s large foster home.
Yet,
it’s been said that Maxwell went to his foster home too,
late at night,
when everyone was asleep,
and he did unholy things to his favorite kids, boys and girls, the ones that so many people had tossed money to him to save.
He’d look at his partygoers and tell them how much he loved the kids, and the unsuspecting fools had no idea just how much he loved them. How much he loved to make them cry and scream and beg to be let go of.
Maxwell was a son of a bitch, and Asher would kill him, pull back his bow, target his arrow’s point, and then release.
The only problem was when.
Not how, but when he had the time.
It was just Maxwell’s bad luck that he delivered an invitation to Asher on that day, the morning after Diana discovered that he was Cupid. The morning after his pounding headache and huge argument with his dead mother’s ghost. He’d been ready to put his arrow in somebody, and Maxwell served as the perfect target.
That he would go to this Monster’s Ball wasn’t even a question. The event provided a perfect opportunity to get close to the sicko, learn his daily habits, get a good look at the man’s property, find the weak spots, and come up with an efficient way to kill.
Diana would have to come too. He couldn’t leave his bird in her cage. Sometimes the bird keeper had to let the creature out, get her away from the cold bars, and let her wings spread and her feathers ruffle in the wind.
On the invitation, Maxwell requested that the men wear tuxedos and all the women should dress in gowns the color of blood. Asher had reread the line over and over, unsure if he was hallucinating.
Diana dressed in blood?
The very thought triggered a dark lust to shiver through him. His cock hardened right there in his pants. An urge swelled in him. He wanted to race to his bedroom, take Diana’s small frame onto his bed, and slip inside of her,
in and out,
until day turned to night,
and her memories of meeting Cupid disappeared.
I can’t. She’ll never let me touch her again. I could see it in her eyes, last night. She’s never going to stop being afraid of me.
The rest of the day, he forced himself to focus on the Ball and all the things he had to do—get Diana’s gown, jewelry, and shoes, notify the staff of his absence, and find out if Maxwell would be at his event.
Hours later, night came to the land.
Ovid Island was south of Miami’s coastline. A paradise for the filthy rich. A getaway for lonely souls looking to get into trouble.
But lately with all the murders of wealthy men, people no longer declared that Ovid Island was paradise. Even the setting changed overnight, as if the island itself, breathed on its own and had become sick from all of the spilled blood and violence.
The glowing moon sat in a sky where no stars sparkled. The palm trees appeared less glorious, and more like bushy skeletal bodies that slanted side to side in the wind.
A horrid smell rode the night breeze.
During the day, storm clouds hovered and cold streets met violent tires that zoomed past. Rich men didn’t cruise along the island anymore in their expensive cars, ogling curvy women that bounced around in tennis outfits. Now, men sped by fast and rushed to the safety of their homes, encased with security alarms and a hungry Rottweiler, as if alarms and dogs could keep them safe from Cupid.
There’d been some sort of yacht accident on the southern tip of Ovid Island—two drunk billionaires crashed into each other.
Two dumbass alcoholics with too much time and money, didn’t look where they were driving and smashed their yachts into each other. The news had been all over the island, due to one of the men having their mistress with them—she’d broken his arm, he’d ruined his marriage.
Asher wished Cupid could take credit but alas – it was their own stupidity that led to their injuries and deaths. Not the righteous justification of a bow and arrow.
After the accident, a disgusting odor drenched the land. Fluids leaked from the yachts and poured into the sea. The watery surface around the island now shined oily black and bubbled in some places. Dead fish washed up under the piers.
Residents complained. Some argued about the smell. The police dropped the investigation of Cupid’s latest victim, and dealt with the accident.
Maxwell should’ve canceled the ball. Not many people will come tonight. The men are scared they’ll die. The women won’t be able to smell their designer perfume over the gassy odor.
Asher’s driver made sure to keep the limo windows up, as Diana and Asher rode in the back and headed to the Ball.
“Have you ever been to Maxwell’s charity events?” Asher asked.
Dressed in sparkling blood, Diana shook her head no and remained quiet.
When she’d finally walked downstairs, Asher had clenched his teeth and almost locked his damn jaw, trying to keep the groan inside of his mouth from escaping. The crimson pearls brought out the rich chocolate of her flesh, made him want to take a lick, a long lap with his tongue.
And those lovely breasts pushed against the top of her gown and bounced with each step.
Fuck yes.
If he’d truly been a monster, he would’ve charged at her, clasped his hands on her body, ripped away every shiny pearl and silky inch of fabric, and exposed those lush pillows to the world.
This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have invited her to the ball. I’ll never focus on what I need to.
He craved just one tug,
just one long wet tug of his mouth on one of her nipples,
sh
e could choose which one.
His cock begged and throbbed in his pants.
His heart pounded in his chest.
Blood rushed to everywhere, but his brain.
All he hungered for was just one lovely tug, one never-ending session of sucking on any nipple that she’d let him feast on.
In that captivating gown, she had stopped at the stairs, looked up at him, and widened her eyes. “Is something wrong?”
All he could do was grunt and point to the front door. Diana had been smart to give him space as she stepped by him. If she only knew the things that played in his mind—like her nude flesh drenched in blood and sex.
It took him longer than normal to meet her in the limo. He’d waited in that hallway for a few minutes, just for his erection to go down and his mind to clear of the demented fog of desire.
When he got into the car, she turned his way. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Although the limo’s shadows hid most of her face, a little light bounced around the ruby teardrops that dangled from her ears. He’d spent all morning searching for the perfect pair of earrings to go with that gown.
Perhaps, I made her too perfect this evening.
He gripped the edge of his seat and asked her again, “Have you ever been to Maxwell’s charity events?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t allowed to. Neil thought it was better for me to be seen at only the important events. It wasn’t worth it to argue with him. I’d never heard anything but gossip about the parties anyway. I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself and watching Neil… play games.”
At the mention of her husband’s name, his body tensed. “Are you mad that I killed Neil and his mistress?”
She parted her lips and didn’t respond.
She’s on edge tonight.
Well, of course she is. I murdered her husband and now I've basically kidnapped her. What should she be doing, laughing and making jokes? Damn it. What have I done? This is all out of control. Did I just ask her if she was mad I killed her husband? Of course she is.
Diana’s soft voice disrupted his thoughts. “You’re twisting the end of your tuxedo jacket into a knot.”
“What?” He snapped his attention to her. “I’m doing what?”
“You’re mumbling incoherent words and twisting your jacket.”
He looked down and sure enough, violent wrinkles covered the right side of his tuxedo. “Sorry.”
She turned her gaze to the window next to her. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“No?”
“No.”
He swallowed and slumped into his seat. “That can’t be right. I’m sure I have a lot to apologize for.”
Silence.
Quiet prevailed. It slithered between them and thickened the air molecules to sludgy unbreathable things.
Asher pressed the window’s button. The glass slid down. A breeze spilled in and cooled his skin. And then that horrid odor from the yachting accident rushed inside—dead fish rotting in an oily ocean.
“Damn it.” He put the window back up, realized he cursed, and said, “Sorry.”
“It's fine.”
“I’m on edge,” he explained.
“It's fine.”
“How are you, Diana?”
“I’m fine.”
“And are you—”
“Fine,” she said. “Everything is fine.”
He groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” She faced him.
“You know what you’re doing?”
She tossed him a mocking pout. “What am I doing, sir?”
That sir stabbed at his insides. A word like that didn’t belong on her lips. Diana was a beast, too strong to bow down to any man and refer to him as her equal.
“Stop it,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Stop what?” She raised her eyebrows. “Stop being an obedient prisoner? Stop sitting in the limo? Stop talking to you? Stop shaking underneath my gown? Stop praying inside of my head that you won’t hurt me? Stop wondering if I'm going to turn into someone I never thought I'd be, a scared animal trapped in a cage? Are these the things that you want me to stop?”
Shocked, he whispered, “Yes.”
The swell of her breasts rose as she breathed in and then exhaled. “Would you rather I try to run? Do you want to chase me, before you take my life? Is that the whole plan? Are you into the psychological part, even more than the copper scent of blood and the ragged tearing of flesh? Stop what exactly? Tell me old bird keeper, because my mind is intrigued. Stop being a bird? Do you want me to be a cat? Or should I be Don Quixote?”
“Don Quixote?” Asher began twisting his jacket again. “What does this have to do with Don Quixote?”
“Stop what exactly?”
He opened his mouth and just stared.
She pointed at him. “You fucking scare me.”
Asher inched away and leaned against his side of the limo, his back pressing into the window. He assumed that he had frightened her, but in what way? She was making jokes on her life, toying with him. It was clear she was scared… but of which part of him?
“Look at this.” She extended her hands in front of her and showed him those shaking fingers. “That is my brain.”
“Your hands are your brain?”
“No!” she yelled.
Asher jumped, but doubted she noticed.
“My shaking is the sign that I have a brain.”
“Of course you do.”
She sighed. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about. You just think that I’m hysterical or something.”
You’re definitely hysterical. I hadn’t realized how much I scared you.
“I’m sorry, Diana.”
“I’m not going crazy,” she argued.
“I don’t really think that I’m a good person to judge if you’re crazy or not.” He risked a shrug. “But you did just mention Don Quixote.”
“Because it is all related!”
“Okay.” He nodded. “Then am I Don Quixote?”
“No.” She buried her face into her hands. “I am.”
“Then I’m Sancho? That was his friend, right? A farmer.”
“Oh just forget about it. That doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does. Are you saying that my kills are like a farmer, am I growing—”
“Just stop it. You’ve missed the point.” She blew out a long breath. “I’m Don Quixote and am walking around in a surreal world. You’re not Sancho. You’re Dulcinea.”
He scrunched his face up in disgust. “The female that Don Quixote loved?”
“Would you just forget about me saying Don Quixote? That’s not the problem.”
“I don’t know. You just said I was a poor waitress.”
“She was a peasant woman.”
“That’s no better.”
“Why because she’s a peasant or the fact that she’s a woman?”
He waited a few seconds before responding, “I don’t think I should answer that.”
She stared at him. “Why not?”
“Because it might get me in further trouble with you.”
“Further trouble? That ship has sailed, buddy.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You’ve kidnapped me. I’m in your home against my will. You’ve admitted to being a murderer. A serial killer.”
“I never said that I was a serial killer.”
She pointed that accusing finger at him some more. “You never denied it.”
“You never asked.”
“I shouldn’t have to."
"I don’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserved to be destroyed.”
The next words left her mouth in a shriek. “YOU ARE NOT GOD!”
“What does this all have to do with Don Quixote?”
“Would you just forget about that?!”
Asher was sure his driver had caught some of h
er yelling. He’d had the divider up the whole time between the driver and them, yet classical music soared from the front of the limo as if the driver had turned it up to block the conversation.
“Please, keep your voice down.” Asher sighed. “Mother used to scream at me in the back of here. Now that she’s gone, I’m not going to deal with it anymore.”
Her voice came out shaky. “What would you do to me, if I kept on screaming like your mother?”
He shook his head. “I would just ask you to be quiet again, and hope you would listen.”
She formed her lips into a straight line.
“I’m not a monster all of the time, Diana.” He directed his attention to the window. “Just on days that end with y.”
“You scare me.”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah. Well, you scare me too.”
“I-I won’t tell—”
“You will. You can’t help it. You’ll tell my story. I think I just figured that out last night as I lay in bed and wondered why I didn’t kill you... ”
He didn’t have to open his eyes and turn to know that her muscles had gone rigid. That his admission had either confirmed her fears or brought about new ones. Regardless, he had to lay it all on the line. Start telling the truth. If only so that she could get ahold of her mind and realize that she was safe with him... at least for now.
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
“I don’t have it in me to hurt you, Diana.” That time he did open his eyes and face her. But instead of remaining calm, he moved all the way to her side of the limo so that barely a few inches remained between them.
What went on in her mind, with them being so close?
He inhaled the scent of lush roses. That beautiful fragrance radiated from her skin. His body warmed. Was she as hot as him? Or had she frozen into icy fear?
“I murder people who hurt others. I take their lives because they injured innocent people. I don’t just go around shooting my arrow at anybody. You think I’m a serial killer?”
“I-I don’t know what you are.”
“I’m the guy that does what the police should.”
“Are you a vigilante?”
“No, I’m Cupid.”
“That’s not an answer.”
