Ethan
It didn’t matter if I was in surgery or a consultation, Anne penetrated my mind.
Like a vicious little virus, affecting my usual thought process.
She wasn’t sharpening any knives or setting a trap for me.
She remained in her studio. Didn’t eat. Didn’t do anything but focus on her canvas as if in a trance.
All while wearing my grey shirt.
Anne didn’t fear me. Not like everyone else. The knives I’d left on her doorstep weren’t meant to intimidate—they were an invitation to play, and she hadn’t panicked or called the police.
Part of me wished she’d remained in my basement, caged. It was more difficult than I’d anticipated, relinquishing control—and in doing so, admitting she was my equal.
I opened my drawer and got my wallet. Rather than send someone for my coffee, I decided I needed the distraction.
?? ?? ??
The girl was a few years younger than Anne. Bright smile, eyes brimming with life, courteous. Banal. Useless. Normal.
I took my coffee from her with a nod.
These people were so far beneath us.
Their lives pitifully bland.
I sipped my coffee.
She could live.
?? ?? ??
I parked my car on her driveway and stared at the front room window. Central London wasn’t cheap, and she’d managed to purchase a decent property, all from her artwork. She’d never even finished high school, yet she was more successful than the majority.
Clever girl.
The dark green door opened and she leaned in the doorway.
She wasn’t wearing my shirt.
No, she stood there knowing that I was going to destroy her tonight.
Her hair was tied high, messy gold strands resting above her head like a crown.
The smallest, most inappropriate shirt I’d ever seen in my life—white material barely covering her breasts, the collar mocking businesswear entirely.
The black, blue and white tartan skirt was so short it may as well have been a napkin.
My hand shot out for the door handle.
It wasn’t her ensemble but the dare in her eyes that drew me in. The way she didn’t look away.
Mother was wrong—because nine years after my birth, Anne was born.
I climbed out of the car and retrieved my overnight bag. When I turned back to her, she was smiling. There wouldn’t be a man who could say no to her, none of them realising they’d met their death in that first smile.
My eyes lingered on her bare midriff, her now-crossed legs.
“This is quite the welcome,” I murmured, drawing closer.
“I read an article about how things grow dull after a while,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s not even been forty-eight hours,” I said, arching a brow.
“I get bored quickly,” she said, smoothing her hand over my chest.
“Is that right?” I drawled. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
I could smell the food, and even as the thought of poison crossed my mind, I followed her inside.
“Who are we eating tonight?” I joked.
Her head snapped back.
“You were in my chest freezer too?”
Her voice was decidedly icy.
“I was curious.”
“You’re lucky that I find you interesting,” she muttered. “We’re having lamb. I don’t eat people. It wasn’t to my taste.”
She always had to go one step further.
“I use them in my paintings,” she said, walking down the hall.
I stared after her in shock. She put portions of her kills into her art, immortalising the dead.
“I need Gareth’s lungs and testicles,” she shouted from the kitchen.
When my mother was too drunk, my father would make a shopping list and take me with him. Human lungs and testicles would never be on anyone’s list but Anne’s.
I left my bag in the hall and went to join her, not for food, but for her presence. To affirm that Anne was the same species as me.
She was stirring something in a saucepan. I moved behind her, placing my hands over her belly.
“Do we have time before dinner?” I murmured, grinding myself against the curve of her arse.
I’d told her what time I’d come back, but I never expected her to cook for us.
“Eat first,” she said when my hand dipped lower.
“Pity,” I said reluctantly, withdrawing my hand. “You’re such a tease.”
Her laughter made me smile. Usually, other people’s traits irritated me, but Anne’s quirks were different.