by Jami Alden
Yeah, that would go over well. Wrecking Talia’s home-entertainment equipment when she was already nervous about him turning into a lust-crazed beast.
If nothing else, he thought grimly, the horrific images of Talia’s attack had momentarily chased away the lust that had been kicked into hyperdrive at the first taste of her.
Still, it took a gargantuan effort to resist the urge to walk up the stairs, open the door of her bedroom, join her on her big bed, and pull her into his arms and just hold her.
Because after the brutal reminder of her attack, he knew that’s about all she’d be up for. And it was a sign of how far gone he was that he would settle for the feel of her warm and safe against him when what he really wanted…
Shit.
He stalked into the kitchen and rummaged through her cabinets. When he unearthed a bottle of rum, he felt like he’d won a prize. Not his first choice, but a couple ounces poured straight over some ice would do the job.
He wasn’t about to get hammered, but he definitely needed something to take the edge off. He knew this state all too well and knew what he was capable of when he was in it. He reached for the TV remote, and as he powered it on, his stomach did a little flip as he half expected Talia’s naked, bleeding body to flash back up on the screen.
Turning the volume low, he tuned it to the History Channel. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the Civil War documentary on the screen, but his brain needed some distraction before it delved too deep into the dark place he worked overtime to avoid.
He was so used to being in control, calm and cool to the point that his veins could have been full of ice instead of water. But situations like this, seeing a woman—especially one he cared about—being threatened. Seeing the helpless fear in her eyes as she looked desperately about for a protector and found none—it was guaranteed to send him reeling.
He drained the rum, wishing he could go for a refill but knowing he couldn’t drink more than one and stay sharp. But one drink and the din of another World War II documentary wasn’t enough to keep the darkness at bay. He stared at the TV, but all he could see was Talia, sobbing in pain, bleeding from the cuts Nate inflicted to tease and torture.
Then other women joined Talia. His mother with one of her countless split lips and black eyes. Warning signs that his father was in more than one of his usual rages if he couldn’t control himself enough to deliver blows only to the places that wouldn’t show.
His sister, Lizzy, and the stark look of betrayal in her eyes the first time his father’s fist had connected with her ribs. Jack, fourteen, had tackled his father, fists flying while Lizzy fled to the bedroom. Though he was big and tall for his age, he was no match for his father, a six-foot-three behemoth fueled by thirty-year-old single malt and unadulterated rage.
It would take a few more years before Jack would be able to best him. A few more years for his father—with his mother’s unwavering blessing—to kick Jack out. He would have been more than happy to leave the house of horrors if it hadn’t meant leaving Lizzy behind to fend for herself.
Jack had helped as much as he could. But despite the fact that Lizzy had gone off to college, then culinary school, and was now working her way through the ranks in a swanky restaurant in New York, it would never be enough.
A father who beat the crap out of you and a mother who stood by and took it? There was no undoing damage like that.
But that didn’t stop Jack from trying to undo his, stepping in to save his “broken birds” as Danny called them. No matter if the bird in question flat-out refused to be saved, he thought, and shoved away another rush of bitter memories.
At least in Talia, he’d set his sights on someone who welcomed his interference. After the crap he’d gotten himself into in the past, there wasn’t much more he could ask for.
Gene wished he could have seen her face when she watched the video. After he’d slipped it into her purse, he’d lingered in his car across the street from the restaurant’s parking lot. He’d watched her leave accompanied by a big black man who must have been a line cook based on his wardrobe. The man escorted Talia to her car, then got into his.
Smart girl, taking precautions. That alone wouldn’t have prevented him from trying to take a peek into her windows or even try to find a place to hide in her house so he could watch her reaction.
But Rosario had told him about the beefed-up security system Talia’s friend had installed. If it had been a standard system with schematics available to download, it would have been a joke to crack—he was unraveling the secrets of the human genome in his PhD dissertation, for Christ’s sake—but the nonstandard system gave him pause.
He would have to find another way to breach her fortress. He wasn’t worried.
It was almost better this way, being able to imagine her shock, her horror. Build up the anticipation of seeing her face when he was the one standing over her with the knife. When he was the one cutting into her body.
When he succeeded where the Seattle Slasher had failed.
But not tonight. Tonight he would continue his studies.
Ten minutes after he watched Talia drive away, Gene was finding his way through the dark concrete tunnel. Though he had night-vision goggles in his bag, he didn’t bother putting them on yet. He knew his way by heart. He’d been down this path dozens of times in the last few months since he’d found his lair. Since he’d realized his true calling, he realized he needed a dedicated, hidden location to hone his craft.
When he got to the door, he slipped on the goggles so he could see and open the padlock he’d installed. Heavy metal scraped against concrete as he shoved the door open.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him. His nose wrinkled at the odor that greeted him. The lack of plumbing was one of the few drawbacks to a nearly perfect location. Although, he mused, it would be a problem in any case, as it was impossible to use a toilet when you were locked in a pitch-black room and your hands and feet were bound.
He was glad he’d brought the bleach. Tonight he’d treat the floor before and after. He smiled at the sound of scuffling in the corner, the little whimper as she tried to get as far away from him as possible.
He quickly located her green-tinged form through his goggles. He pulled a blindfold out of his bag. Ignoring her cries of protest, he wrapped the scarf tightly around her eyes. Retreating to the door, he slipped off the goggles and clicked on the overhead light. He took a moment to admire her. According to the driver’s license that had been tucked into the pocket of the jeans he’d cut off her, her name was Madison Delaney, but he liked to think of her as Number 4.
Number 4 had sustained more damage than the other three, which made sense since he’d had her here nearly a full week already. It had taken that long to get the fight out of her. Her bare legs were covered in bruises and scrapes from where she’d tried to hurl herself against the walls of the shed. Her arms, sticking out of the sleeves of the T-shirt that covered her top half, were similarly battered.
Now she didn’t move except from the convulsive shivering. It was cold down here and the concrete floors and walls made it even colder. He could see her tension in the way her chin was tilted up, her head cocked to the side as she listened. For the first few days, she screamed incessantly whenever he came to visit, but she’d since learned that it didn’t do any good.
In hell, no one can hear you scream.
He didn’t say a word as he cleaned up the concrete floor, watched her nostrils quiver as the smell of the bleach hit her. Then he went to his bag and pulled out the wipes, the kind you’d use on a baby.
He crossed to where she lay in the corner, his hands shaking at the anticipation of touching her.
He cautioned himself not to let his excitement overwhelm him.
He needed to study.
He grasped her around the ankle, his penis thickening at the way she whimpered behind the gag and tried to jerk out of his hold. He let her try to yank away a few times, laughing a little at the futilit
y of it all.
He plucked several wipes out of the box and pulled her closer across the cement floor. “You’ll never get away,” he whispered. “Not until I’m ready to let you go.”
She froze, and he could feel her skin quivering under his hands as he slid the wipes over the skin of her calves, then up to her thigh. His breath quickened and sweat beaded under his clothes as he took a fresh wipe and went up, between her thighs.
Her legs clamped around his hand, and she whimpered as he thoroughly cleaned her. By the time he was satisfied she was clean, he was fully erect, straining against the fly of his pants.
He gathered the used wipes and zipped them into a plastic bag to be disposed of later. He resisted the urge to throw her to the floor and take her now. There was a methodology he had to follow.
He backed away, pulled his iPad out of his bag, and took a seat on the folding chair in the opposite corner. The girl didn’t move for several moments, propped against the wall with her legs slightly splayed, back arched from having her arms bound behind her.
After nearly a minute, she decided it would be safe to move, and she slowly, carefully, as though she was trying to get away with it, curled her knees into her chest and hid her face against the wall.
He focused his attention on the iPad on his lap.
A few finger swipes and he had what he wanted. His heartbeat picked up as the footage started to roll. He licked his lips as Talia was thrown to the ground and her attacker hunkered over her to slice off her clothes.
He smiled a little as the Slasher touched the burning tip of a cigarette to the unblemished skin under Talia’s left breast. Her cry of pain sent lust searing through him and he closed his hand over himself, stroking the hard flesh. Oh, to have been in that room, to be the one to mar that perfect flesh…
He snatched his hand away and shoved aside the lust. He could not get carried away. He had to learn to hold himself back, to analyze the footage with a more clinical, analytical eye.
That was his problem. He got distracted, lost in the moment, and didn’t pay attention to the details. He put his hand on his thigh and dug his fingers into the muscle, using the pain to keep him focused.
He focused on the blade, glinting silver as it arced toward Talia’s back, slicing a clean diagonal line across the smooth expanse. His hand fisted, and he could almost feel the weight of the handle in his own hand, feel the skin yield to its razor sharpness.
In the video Talia screamed, and he turned down the volume as the high, frantic sound threatened to snap his control. He watched as the Slasher made the second cut, on the opposite diagonal, forming a perfect X. That was where Gene always got messed up. Even if he didn’t get overexcited from the first cut, from the cries of pain and the first crimson stripe welling up and spilling over, it was an awkward angle to cut with his right hand, right shoulder to left hip. Brewster had the advantage of being ambidextrous, so he was able to make the second cut as perfectly with his left as he’d made with his right.
Gene had to find a way to overcome his shortcomings.
There were, however, areas where he had an advantage over Brewster. For all the terror he instilled in Talia, Brewster hadn’t been able to get it up and fuck her like a real man.
Gene would have no such failings. When he completed his mission, he would take Talia as she deserved.
He skipped over the part where the Slasher was beating the other woman. Gene had no interest in her. Then Talia, foolish girl, made the mistake of going after him, hurling herself at his back.
Nate Brewster reared his hulking body over her, and in that moment it was like Gene was living it himself, like he was one with the beast, his own hand arcing down to deliver what should have been a fatal blow.
Yet, despite the blood pooling around her too-still body, it hadn’t been.
When the time came, Gene wouldn’t make the same mistake.
The screen showed Brewster’s naked, muscular body as he dragged the other woman out of view. Then there was a muffled crash and the screen went dark as the camera was knocked aside in the struggle.
He shut off the video app and slipped the iPad back into his bag. He forced himself to breathe deep and slow, calming himself, taking the edge off the rush that always overtook him when he watched the video.
A rush that was even keener tonight, knowing that Talia had seen it too, perhaps for the very first time.
His gaze locked on the girl, frozen and whimpering in the opposite corner. Licked his lips in anticipation of feeling her hips clutched in his hands, of feeling the heft of the knife as it pressed into her yielding flesh.
His penis throbbed at the thought of her body squeezing around him as she stiffened in terror and pain.
But he had to follow the rules.
First he laid out the blanket. Cheap, a wool blend, one of dozens he’d bought at Costco.
Then he stripped and put on his protective gear. Latex gloves. Cap pulled over his closely cropped hair.
And finally, at last, a condom rolled down over his erect penis. He slipped the knife out of his bag. Gene had researched what kind of knife Brewster had used on his victims. It had taken him months to find a close match on eBay.
Polished and sharpened to razor sharpness, it was without flaw. None of the mistakes in the past could be blamed on equipment. It was all operator error.
He pulled the girl to her feet and half dragged, half carried her to the blanket. She thrashed, her legs kicking wildly. But the struggles petered out in a few seconds, her energy quickly sapped after several days without food and little water. He cut the bonds holding her hands behind her back and quickly retied them in front of her body.
He pushed her onto her stomach and pinned her down by kneeling on the backs of her thighs. His knife cut through the stained T-shirt like butter, the ripping sound echoing through the closeness of the shed.
His hand slashed down to make the first cut.
Perfect.
Drawing a line from her left shoulder to the top of her right hip, the tip of his knife sliced through the thin layers of skin and fat, stopping just short of the muscle.
Number 4 screamed behind the gag and duct tape, trying to arch away against the unforgiving concrete of the floor.
The cut was so clean it didn’t bleed for several seconds. First beading, then welling over until dark crimson spilled over the sides.
He traced his finger in the wetness, dragged his finger back and forth to spread the lovely color over her skin. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
Number 4 sobbed.
He took a deep breath, forced his hands to steady as he prepared to make the crucial second cut. The one he had botched the three previous times. Each time he’d attempted it, it had been too jagged, too deep, or too shallow.
He dug his knees harder into the backs of her thighs, felt the muscles and tendons grind against her femur bones. Carefully, he positioned the knife at the top of her shoulder and drew it slowly, carefully diagonally across her back.
Perfect.
His breath caught in his chest and a surge of fresh lust pounded between his thighs as the magnitude of his achievement hit him.
Triumph pulsed through him and a wild laugh ripped from his chest as he flipped her onto her back.
Only one more mark to make.
He dug his knees into her thighs. She was sobbing behind the blindfold, her desperate, animal sounds trapped behind the gag. He leaned in enough for her to feel the hard length of his penis against her stomach, letting her know exactly what was coming.
Right after he made the final cut.
The tip of the knife flashed silver against the pale skin underneath her breastbone. Almost delicate as it parted just the top layers of skin as he drew another smaller, perfect X to match the one carved into her back.
Unlike Talia, Number 4 wouldn’t feel the full length of his blade sinking into her.
But she would feel something else.
He shoved her thighs wide and drove himself
into her.
Chapter 9
So you understand this is serious, right? I’m not going off half-cocked again.”
Talia could hear Jack’s voice as she padded down the stairs.
He was wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt and gym shorts that exposed his powerfully muscled calves. His feet were bare, and his hair was sleep ruffled into short little spikes.
He looked powerful, rumpled, and right at home in her living room. She’d fully expected to spend a restless, nightmare-haunted night, but miraculously her sleep had been deep and dreamless. As though her subconscious knew that with Jack here, she was safe.
Don’t get used to it, she scolded herself. He’s helping you out, and you owe him for that, but you can’t let yourself depend too much on him or anyone else.
“I’ll extend a personal apology to Blankenthorn for dropping out as the lead, but I can’t ignore what’s going on here, Dan.”
Her stomach clenched. He was talking to Danny Taggart, no doubt about dropping off the assignment that had brought him down here. She hoped Danny was in an understanding mood. She didn’t want Jack losing his job over her.
He must have heard her on the stairs, because he turned in her direction. His ice-blue eyes flicked up and down her body in that disconcertingly thorough way of his. Even though she was covered head to toe in two layers of clothes—her more revealing workout gear hidden under a navy hoodie and matching knit pants—she felt suddenly exposed.
Jack gave her a silent nod, which she returned and left him to finish his conversation as she darted past him to the kitchen.
Jack had been up long enough to make and drink coffee. There was about half an inch of warm liquid in the bottom of the carafe. She tossed it and set about making a fresh pot.
She poured water into the coffeemaker, embarrassed at the way her hands shook as she spooned grounds into the filter. God, she hoped they caught whoever was messing with her soon. Being terrorized aside, she wouldn’t last long with Jack in close proximity if all it took was a look from him to throw her completely off-kilter.
