Chapter 2
SAMAEL “SAM” MORRIS
I dropped the guy I was carrying onto the floor of my basement and stared at the three bodies lying together.
They deserved to be here, just like all the others I’d killed.
People like this made the world a horrible place.
They abused and tortured, both physically and emotionally, and I didn’t feel remorseful about taking their lives.
I’d never felt guilty about murdering these people.
I didn’t feel much in terms of emotions, really.
The first guy I’d hit hadn’t seen me coming, though I wish he had.
I wanted to see the pain on his face—the terror—as I took his life.
The other two did, though. One of them had died from the strength of the sedative, enough to stun a tiger, but the other had somehow survived.
It was only when my bat slammed against his head that he’d met death.
I’d never heard anything more satisfying than the shattering of bones.
After taking the bodies inside, I’d cleaned up the yard.
I’d never expected to kill at my own home, but there’d been a reason I’d put up such high fences.
There was no way for my neighbors to see anything that happened in my backyard.
All I needed to do was wash away the top of the snow with a couple of buckets of hot water and watch the blood melt away.
By morning, it’d be covered with fresh snow.
There was no reason for people to be suspicious of me anyway.
My next step was to cut up the bodies until they were nothing but small pieces I could throw into a sealed bag and put in my freezer. I’d taken my last kill to the pigs a few days ago, which meant I had plenty of free space to stack them in.
It was best to cut them up as soon as possible.
The human body rotted fast, and when rigor mortis set in, it was harder to cut through the limbs.
Paleness had already bleached the skin of the men, which meant I needed to work fast. It was the first stage of death, and next came the drop of the body temperature.
They were fine while they were out in the snow, but not in the basement.
I grabbed my apron, face mask, and goggles, and began to work. Slicing through the meat was easy, but the bones were a little harder. Blood splattered my apron, but I was used to it by now. It wasn’t hard to wash off. The saw blade squealed through the bones, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I’d cut enough bodies that it only took me two and a half hours to finish all three men and store them in the freezer.
At least two of the bodies. Three was too much for the pigs and it’d take too long, which meant one of them was taking a special trip into a plastic barrel of chemicals.
I voted Paul. He deserved to suffer, even in death.
Once the two bodies were packed away and Paul was thrown into my secret barrel, I cleaned up my mess until the basement was spotless and reeked of bleach.
When I finished, I walked up the creaky old stairs and back into the living room.
My new guest wasn’t there like I’d expected, but I didn’t search for him.
I didn’t think Ezra would run to the authorities.
One of these men had been beating on him while the others watched, marking his beautiful face with bruises and cuts from the bastard’s fists. The asshole got what he deserved.
I fell onto the beige couch, my trusty notepad and pen sitting beside me, and sighed, running my palms over my face.
The living room didn’t have much furniture, but I hated clutter.
I kept my possessions to the bare minimum.
For this room, it was a couch, TV, and a short wooden coffee table made from oak.
To the left of me was a fireplace, the flames flickering since early in the morning, when the snowflakes had begun to fall.
I sat there listening to the whisper of the wind outside, whistling against the windows.
The noise of the bathtub draining made me smile.
I hadn’t expected him to be in there that long, but I supposed if I was homeless, I’d enjoy my time having a bath, too.
Ten minutes later, my guest found me. He wore the loose red T-shirt and gray sweatpants I’d left for him beside the bathroom door.
His chest hair was visible above the collar of the shirt and I thought it was adorable, which was weird.
What was adorable about chest hair? It suited him.
His collarbones stuck out a little too much, though.
I nodded at his bare feet, and his gaze followed mine.
“Slippers?” He raised his eyebrows. His brown hair curled around the back of his neck and jaw, framing his soft but bruising face. His full, pale pink lips parted slightly.
I nodded again. It wasn’t worth it to write simple things like asking about slippers on the notepad, though when it came to incriminating information, it was the best form of communication with someone who didn’t sign.
It was easier to get rid of physical notes than anything written on technology, because phones stored data that the cops could retrieve if they ever had suspicions about me.
I rose, then strode past him and toward my bedroom. I grabbed a pair of clean socks and a set of slippers I didn’t use anymore and handed them to him when I returned, pointing at his feet.
He sent me the widest, prettiest smile and sat down on the couch, rolling the socks onto his bony feet. I fell onto the cushions next to him, watching him carefully. When he had the slippers on, he turned to me.
“Thanks for the bath.”
I smiled and patted him on the arm, expecting him to jump away. He didn’t. He leaned into my hand instead.
He glanced at where I’d touched him, then looked at my face again. “What did you do with them?”
I cocked my head, making my frown obvious. I’d met many people in my life, people who’d tried to understand what I was saying without sign language, and they rarely did. Not until him. Unlike the others, Ezra looked like he wanted to listen.
“The guys who hurt me.”
I pressed my lips together, pondering what I could say or write to him.
He seemed genuinely curious. I stroked the purple-and-green bruises that had started to ripen on his face.
There was one on his cheekbone, the biggest of them, and it darkened the quickest, but the one on the inside of his right eye had only begun to bruise, and I had a feeling it would end up looking a lot worse.
He also had one on his nose, and his face had cuts and scrapes, which I’d already cleaned.
He cringed under my touch. “It hurts.”
I grabbed the notepad.
Broken?
“My cheekbone?”
A nod.
“No, I don’t think so.” He touched his cheek and winced again.
Doctor?
I kept my notes short and sweet. It was easier than writing long, winding sentences.
He frowned at the word, teeth bared. “Hell no. I don’t have insurance and I’m not giving those jerks the satisfaction.”
My lips curled in amusement.
They’re dead. No satisfaction.
He snorted, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, guess they are.” He stared at me a little longer, shuffling closer until his knee touched the one I’d rested on the cushion between us. “Do you kill often?”
What could I say to a stranger? Nothing. I wasn’t an idiot, but he already knew too much. If I was worried about him, I’d have to take him out. Something curled inside me, a warm trust that I was silly to believe. Yet, I did. I trusted him.
I shifted again, rising to get the first aid kit. I pulled out a bandage, small and thin, and peeled off the back. I laid the Band-Aid over the cut on the bridge of his nose.
“Are you going to ignore me now?” His gentle voice made something coil in my stomach.
I didn’t know what it was about him, but a sense of excitement I usually got from killing grew out of it.
I pulled away from him and the fresh smell of soap.
He’d reeked before, like anyone who hadn’t showered in a while, but now all I could smell was lavender.
“You are.” He puffed out a long exhale. “Don’t blame you really.
I ignored people on the street when they asked questions.
” He fell against the back of the couch, dark brown eyebrows dipping low.
Ezra’s hair hung around his chin, and it looked much softer than it had before he’d showered and washed it.
“They always asked a lot of questions. Where are you from? How did you end up on the streets? It’s none of their fucking business. But I finally understand the curiosity because I want to know who you are.”
I smiled as I ripped out the notes I’d written before and threw them into the fireplace. The crackling flames ate at them as I wrote on the notepad.
Samael.
Ezra chuckled. “Yeah, you said that. You got a last name, Samael?”
I nodded. The only answer he’d get for now.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath and stared in the direction of the fire. “This place is really warm.” Sliding off the couch, he crawled toward the flames, pert ass in the air.
I watched him, intrigued and unable to look away. Why hadn’t he walked?
He sat down in front of the fireplace and raised his palms near the flames. His eyes closed, breathing deep. “I missed this.”
“Fire?” It hurt to talk. It felt like someone had shoved a knife into my throat. Even twenty-three years after the injury, the pain never stopped. The doctors couldn’t explain why, but they assumed it was all in my head. Trauma, they’d said.
Ezra glanced at me over his shoulder and smiled. “Heat.”
I cocked my head and raised my chin in question. I expected him not to comprehend, but an unspoken conversation passed between us and understanding flashed in his eyes.
“If you’re not gonna tell me about yourself, why would I tell you about me?” He turned his back on me again.
I laughed, or at least, attempted to. My version of a laugh was short bursts of exhales, with an added noise in the back of my throat. But he got the point because he chuckled.
Ezra folded his legs under himself and sat still in front of the fireplace, eyes remaining closed as pleasure settled on his face. The calmness of his posture made me feel at peace, too. A comfortable silence wrapped around us.
I’d always hated the quiet because it meant loneliness to me.
I didn’t have anyone to share my life with, no one who made me want to risk the pain of talking just so I could say something to them.
Then he came along, and I’d not only attempted to speak to him, but I’d killed for him.
No matter how I rearranged it in my head, from them college bullies deserving death to the fact I was eager to kill again, what it came down to was the expression on his face that I saw from the upstairs window when the prick smashed him with his fists.
Ezra had wanted to die. Wanted it to end.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Rising from the couch with my notepad, I took a seat on the floor next to him. I patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
It’ll be okay.
He took the notepad from me and stared down at it. His fingers traced the scribble of my writing and finally, he smiled. “Yeah. I think it will be.”
His stomach growled, interrupting the moment, and I cursed myself for not realizing he was hungry.
The poor guy was homeless. Who knew when he’d last eaten.
Guilt gnawed at my insides as I left him sitting near the fire to go into the kitchen.
I grabbed some fresh bread I’d bought today and contemplated putting something on it but thought better of it.
I didn’t know what his stomach could handle.
When I’d made my way back to him, he hadn’t moved from his spot, but his eyes were closed. I might’ve thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up if he hadn’t looked at me when I shifted closer. I passed him the bread and made a gesture to my own mouth.
His soft gaze made my chest clench around my heart.
“Thank you.”
I inclined my head.
Ezra ate a little too fast, but I didn’t comment. I was sure he knew what his body could tolerate, and if he vomited, then I’d be there to help.
I grabbed my notepad.
Going to shower. Be back soon. Then sleep.
He smiled when he read the words. “Okay.”