Chased most highs.
But I think this is my favorite.
“It seems you’re enjoying this a little too much, and while I hate to dim that light shining in your eyes, we need to go before someone walks around here,” Reon says.
I stare into the creep’s eyes.
I wonder if he can see that this is the first time I have felt truly alive.
How fucked-up my head is.
I grin at him. “I liked this outcome more than the one you had planned.” I glance at the guy. “This one is really much more in my favor, wouldn’t you agree?” I pull on the knife, and it slides out of his stomach. The man groans in pain, blood flowing through the fingers pressed to his wound.
What is he thinking right now?
Is he worried he might die?
Ha.
Serves him right.
Stupid asshole.
I feel Reon come up beside me. He takes the knife, wiping it off on the guys’ clothes, and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. I watch as he pulls out a handkerchief, wiping the blood from my hands. Droplets have splattered onto my skin, and he tenderly wipes them away. Pressing a kiss to my palm before he slides the handkerchief back where he pulled it from.
“It’s time we go home.”
“But I’m not tired,” I argue. No, I feel the best I’ve felt in a long time.
Invigorated. Energized. Stimulated.
“Who said anything about going home to sleep?”
I smile at his words as we start walking. Reon checks to ensure no one else witnesses us leaving the alley, and we stay out of the lighted areas as we make our way up the hill to his apartment building. He makes a few calls, and I hear him asking someone to wipe any evidence of him out tonight. Neither of us says a word until we reach the elevator.
“What do you plan to do with the knife?” I ask as we step out of the elevator, and he unlocks the door. With the door closed and locked behind us, he goes to the kitchen, opens the dishwasher, places the knife inside, and starts it before he turns to me.
“Give me your clothes,” he orders.
“That’s not the nicest way to ask me to get naked, but okay.” I remove my clothing as he instructs before moving to the living room fireplace. He starts it up, and the fire flickers. When it’s fully alight, he tears off his clothes and throws them in. Then he strides over to me and reaches for mine. When he turns around, I see that his back is fully inked, featuring a woman with rosary beads in her hands and fire licking all around her.
I knew he had tattoos—the ones on his fingers are perfectly visible—but I didn’t realize his whole back is covered.
He throws my clothes onto the flames, and when he turns to look back at me, I smile at him.
“Do you do that often?” I ask. His gaze fixes on me, dark and penetrating, as if he can see me to my core. He’s naked and foreboding, seemingly carved from granite or marble, like a Greek statue brought to life. His tattoos are stark on his body as the flames of the fire flicker across his golden skin. He’s devilish, dangerous, and observant. The silence stretches to breaking point until he finally speaks.
“Remember how we spoke about my favorite things to do?” I nod. His gaze takes in all of me. I can feel it scorching my bare skin. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”
My heart skips a beat at his response. Everyone in my world has seen me differently and never understood me. And yet, here is this man, standing in front of me, someone who might finally understand me, who would potentially relish in the thoughts that cross my mind and not try to lock me in a box.
I see him now, and it excites me even more.
“But why? Why would someone like you…” I wave a hand at him, so perfect, so successful.
“Someone like me?” he asks as he raises a brow and stalks closer to me. “What is someone like me? You saw a suit and a plane and presumed what?”
“You seem so normal, with your business trips, perfectly styled hair, and your ex-girlfriend’s sister-in-law.”
