24. Dove
Rich people can be so fucking dumb sometimes.
Aside from his proclivity for fucking women who look younger than they are while scouting his next victim, Marcus Westfield doesn’t ask for a shred of proof about who I am. No collateral, no NDA, no precaution ensuring I’ll keep his identity a secret.
Nothing.
Most men of his caliber—scummy, high-ranking Wall Street types—have protocols. NDAs, security measures, exit strategies. Not Marcus. He thinks his remote farmhouse on the New York–Pennsylvania border, miles from the nearest neighbor, is enough to ensure discretion.
It’s where he takes his victims. It's fitting that it’s where he’ll meet his bloody end .
Marcus is a medium kill, but I have a lot of pent-up rage to burn.
Winding down the long gravel driveway, the crunch beneath the tires of my rented white sedan is swallowed by the storm rolling in. It’s an older-model Chevy with no GPS, but I still slapped on a fake license plate and prayed to whoever was listening that I wouldn’t get pulled over.
Wren was right to be worried. Generally, I wouldn’t agree to meet somewhere so isolated. But this is precisely why I work alone. Even Bunny and I don’t usually do jobs together. Sure, we help clean up the mess, but it’s too much trouble to worry about another body in the mix. People are unpredictable.
And my songbird is too sweet to get tangled in this chaos.
The farmhouse’s distant glow grows closer, blurred by the rain that now pours in heavy sheets. The windshield wipers struggle to keep up as I reach for my purse, fishing out my pack of Black and Milds and the Zippo I keep next to them. My thumb glides over a raised smooth surface on the lighter, and my heart stops. I slow the car as I hit the map light to inspect it.
Motherfuc— I abruptly cut off my internal curse, vowing never to use that word again. But goddammit, Wren. This must be how he’s tracking me. That smart-ass knew I wouldn’t find it because I promised him I’d quit smoking. And I have—mostly. A frustrated sound escapes my throat as I toss the pack and lighter back into my bag.
A heavy sense of dread settles in my lungs. What if he doesn’t listen? What if he follows me again?
This is a bad idea, Turtle Dove. His voice rings through my head, clear as if he were beside me.
I inhale sharply and press my foot to the gas. Another day that Marcus gets to live is another child at risk of becoming his next victim.
The farmhouse looks perfectly normal—cream-colored with a gray shingle roof, a detached three-car garage, and carefully manicured landscaping, the kind that suggests he hires someone to maintain it when he’s not here.
It’s bigger than what a single bachelor needs, but my research shows he likes to throw parties for his finance bros.
This house has seen some shit.
Tonight, that shit will look tame compared to what I’m about to do to him.
Pushing thoughts of Wren from my mind, I collect my duffel, open the umbrella I always keep in my purse, and make the short walk to the door. Marcus greets me with a glass of red wine and a charming smile.
He has the kind of face that inspires trust at first glance—freshly shaven, sharp features, a wolf in finance shark clothing. In his tailored suits, he’s the man who can double your investment while making himself even richer. Dressed down in joggers and a white tee, he looks like he could be the hot basketball coach at a local high school.
Which is probably exactly how he hooks the teenage girls he likes to fuck.
“Wow. You are beautiful.” His eyes roam my body, lingering. He shuts the door behind me and motions to an umbrella stand in the corner.
Even though I have a costume to change into, I took my time selecting the perfect summer dress to highlight my curves. My makeup is carefully done to make me look younger. The whole package is designed to put him at ease, to make him think I’m just a tiny slip of a woman, unable to defend myself when his instincts kick in and he starts playing out his rape fantasy. He’s smart to hire sex workers between his victims so he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself. Unfortunately for them, no one cares if they go missing.
Unfortunately for him, he’s caught the attention of the wrong woman.
“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my tone light and breathy to sell the innocent act. It’s what he requested, after all. And I’m nothing if not a professional .
“Listen,” he says, handing me the wine with an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I have to take a quick Zoom call for work. Shouldn’t be more than half an hour. Make yourself comfortable. There’s charcuterie if you’re hungry. Help yourself to anything.”
Charming and considerate. He’s trying to put me at ease, too. Having researched him, I know not to drink the wine. The food is probably safe, but the alcohol? Almost certainly drugged.
“It’s okay. I can wait. Would you… would you like me to get ready?” I peer up at him with big doe eyes, willing a blush to rise to my cheeks as I bite my lower lip demurely.
Marcus doesn’t bother hiding his erection as it springs to life behind the charcoal joggers. “Sure. Third room down the hall on the right.” He steps into my space, blue eyes tracing my features. I force myself not to flinch as he cups my chin. “Forget the wig. Dress in the lingerie and wait for me on the sofa in the living room where I can see you.” He pulls on my lip with his thumb. Every nerve in my body screams in revulsion. I mask it with a shy smile and fluttering lashes as he whispers, “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
“Thank you.” I lower my gaze, glancing timidly at the bulge in his pants that threatens to brush against my stomach if he comes any closer. It makes me want to retch. Guilt lances through me for being so intimately close to a man who isn’t Wren.
Turn it off, Dove. This is what you do. It’s who you are. Wren doesn’t change that.
“How old are you?” Marcus asks.
“Fifteen,” I lie, providing the age he requested I play.
His smile is downright diabolical. The contents of my stomach curdle as he says, “Good girl.”
A shiver runs through me. He mistakes it for desire and chuckles. “Go get ready for daddy.”
Gag.
Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it with a thin smile and turn to do as he says.
The hall is devoid of personal touches. No photos, no shelves with knickknacks. The off-white walls are blank. But stepping into the room he directed me to is like walking into a nightmare. A ledge borders the top of the space, and every inch of it is occupied by dolls—porcelain collectibles, the same kind Freddy used to keep in my room at his house.
What the fuck is it with psychopaths and dolls?
A shudder racks my body. I toss my bag onto the pristine ivory comforter of the queen-sized bed before setting the wine on the large white vanity.
I retrieve an alcohol test strip and dip my finger in the red liquid, dropping some onto the strip. I let out an unladylike snort when it turns blue instantly.
Amateur.
I check the time and pull out my lingerie, inwardly cringing as Wren sneaks back into my thoughts. If he saw what Marcus is about to see tonight, he’d lose his goddamn mind.
I know I have to reevaluate everything. Every painstaking detail I put into my kills washed away because my boyfriend discovered my identity.
Wren makes me sloppy. Distracted.
But I refuse to give him up.
Or the Doll.
I have to change something to make this work. And I want it to work so badly. I’ve never wanted anything like I want Wren. He makes me feel alive. Being with him awakens a protectiveness in me I never knew I possessed.
It’s not like a mother’s instinct—the kind that drives a woman to do whatever it takes to protect her offspring.
No, it’s something far more primal. A feral need to protect my mate.
I need to be willing to do whatever it takes.
Marcus is talking shop when I return to the main living area, laughing with whoever is on the other end of the screen as he lounges at the dining room table. The open-concept layout makes it easy for him to see me, and I allow another shy smile to grace my lips as his approving gaze drags down my scantily clad body.
Lazily, I peruse the room. As he continues working, I do things to catch his attention—bending slightly to read the titles of books on the inlaid shelving so he gets a perfect view of my ass beneath the babydoll nightie, or slowly pushing my hair over my shoulder before running my fingers over my breast.
By the time he finishes his call, he looks ready to chase me through the house and fuck me senseless.
I’ve never been drier.
“Did you not like the wine?” he asks, joining me where I sit with my legs curled beneath me on the sofa.
“It tastes a little funny.” I scrunch my nose and move to my knees, reaching over to take his glass as he sets it on the coaster. Holding his gaze, I take a drink. “Yours tastes normal. Maybe mine still has soap residue from the dishwasher?”
The most common date-rape drugs are tasteless. Marcus likely knows this. He frowns and cocks his head. “Huh. That’s strange. I’m sorry. I can get you a new glass.”
“Maybe I’m just being silly. I’m not usually a big wine drinker. Here, try it.” I grab my drink and lift it to his lips.
“What do you drink? I can get you something else.” He jolts off the couch, giving me his back as he strides into the kitchen.
Quickly, I pour half of my wine into his glass, then set them both back on their coasters, my drugged, now half-empty drink where his was. “That’s okay! I’ll just drink it.” Marcus turns as I pretend to take a sip. “It’s really not that bad. I was just trying to play into the fantasy.”
Nice save, Dove.
He huffs a laugh and strolls back, picking up his glass and taking a large gulp. “Well, you’re certainly worth the money, aren’t you?”
I flash him a saccharine smile and rise to my feet. A flicker of light flashes through the large front windows, catching my attention for a split second before it vanishes into the dark. My brows knit together as I glance back at Marcus, but he doesn’t notice my momentary lapse in attention.
Is he expecting someone?
My hackles rise. A gut feeling tightens in my stomach—a whisper of warning that I may have gotten in over my head this time.
“I’m going to use the bathroom before we get started. I’ll be right back.” I take my glass with me, returning to the room with my things to text Bunny—only to realize I left my purse, and my phone, in the car .
“Shit.” Sighing, I dump the wine into the toilet and flush, letting the sink run for a few moments before retrieving my mask.
For whatever reason, the mask is what always puts the fear of death in their eyes. Maybe it’s because they finally realize who I am. Maybe it’s just downright terrifying. To me, it’s just a mask. Without the blackout contacts, it’s not even that creepy.
Men are so weak.
I give it a few more minutes. The light wasn’t far away—if Marcus is expecting someone, they’d be here by now. Once I’m certain it was just a trick of the house’s reflection against the glass, I return to the living room.
Marcus’ head swings toward me, slow and sluggish, a sloppy smile curving his lips. He doesn’t even notice the mask as he pushes to his feet, swaying. “Did you tell your parents you were at a sleepover?”
I swallow the disgust threatening to crawl up my throat. “I did, Daddy . Now, why don’t you sit back down so I can sit in your lap, and you can sing me a lullaby?”
His features melt from confusion into stark realization as I slip the mask over my head. “You… You’re?—”
“So eloquent, Marcus.” I take a step toward him, giggling as he stumbles back. He’s a big guy, and it’s only been a few minutes—the drugs will take a few more to really kick in. “Wanna play your game now?”
In his requests, he mentioned playing hide and seek. But now that the tables have turned, he looks more ready to piss himself than chase me through the house before raping me.
Sweat beads on his forehead as he takes a step back for every one I take forward. He skirts the massive kitchen island, leaving the large knife he used to cut cheese up for grabs. “Please don’t kill me,” he sobs.
“Does the name Sophia Madden ring a bell, Marcus?” It’s my voice that echoes through the room, not the modulator, as I ask the question.
He shakes his head, tears beginning to flow from his face, when I ask another. “How about Brianna Turmond? Chloe Singleton? Sarah Weaver?”
Each step backs him closer to the French doors. The less mess I make inside, the better. By the time anyone finds Marcus, he’ll be a pile of mush—if the rain keeps up.
With a trembling hand held out like it will stop me, he sobs, “I thought they were of age, I swear!” His other hand scrambles at the latch as his back meets the glass.
“Funny how you suddenly know exactly what I’m talking about.” I cock my head and grin, though he can’t see it behind the mask. “Do you know they’re all in therapy now because of what you did? Did you think picking girls from different places would keep you from getting caught?”
A flash of lightly tanned skin darts into the backyard. From the corner of my eye, I catch Wren slipping into the bushes. He’s wearing dark clothes, but he’s not even trying to be stealthy.
Fucking hell.
With a sigh, I mumble, “He’s never gonna learn.”
Marcus tilts his head in confusion and looks behind him. When he swings his unfocused gaze back to me, he cries, “I promise! I'll learn! I swear I will!”
He finally fumbles the latch open, and the door swings outward abruptly, catching in the wind as he stumbles into the storm. The drugs are reaching their final stage, making his limbs clumsy. He falls, grasping at mud, and I follow.
Lighting flashes in the sky, the fat clouds above backlit by a grayish blue before a roar of thunder claps therapeutically. The chaos soothes me, helping to ground my psyche as I catch up with the blubbering mess who army-crawls away.
With a quick downward thrust, I plunge the dagger into the meat between his spine and shoulder. His cry is lost to mother nature as she throws a tantrum and takes it out on the mortals who keep fucking up her zen .
I honestly don’t blame her.
Marcus flips over and tries to crabwalk away, his injured arm now useless every time he puts weight on that side. He sounds sleepy as he continues to beg for his life. “Please. I have money. I’ll give you whatever you want.”
I heave a deep sigh, removing my mask and tossing it to the ground before tipping my head back toward the sky to let the rain wash over my face.
I hate the ones who think money will change anything. They’ve been taught their whole lives that money can get them out of any bad situation—even at the expense of someone else’s life.
“They wanted it! I didn’t force them! They were old enough to know better!”
Freddy’s voice echoes in my ears. You were old enough to know better.
Fury rips from my throat in a warrior’s cry as I drop to my knees, straddling him. The dagger plunges deep into his stomach. Blood spurts from the wound, splashing onto my face. I grimace and reach for my mask and slip it back over my head, shielding myself from the revolting spray of blood and spittle as they leave his body in shuddering bursts.
I want to play my games and torture the man within an inch of his life. I want to wait for the drugs to wear off so he feels everything when I finally end him.
But, of course, my songbird had to go and fuck up everything. So a quick death it shall be.
Marcus swings his arms weakly, a lazy, pathetic attempt to fight me off. His screams gurgle through the blood flooding his throat. My goodbye lullaby joins his cries from behind my mask.
“Ring around the rosie.”
Pierce .
“ Pocket full of posies .”
Slash .
“Ashes. Ashes.”
Stab .
“ We all fall down .”
Okay, so I get a little carried away. His stomach is a shredded, meaty ruin, bubbling with blood and slick intestines spilling onto the grass. My final blow lands with a sickening squelch, and I watch the light fade from his eyes.
And I won’t lie—knowing that Wren watched the whole thing without making a sound? Kind of turns me on.
Laughter bubbles up from my lips, dark and breathless. I remember when Wren told the Doll that he wanted to kill for me. Now, he’s watched me take a life .
Twice.
I told him not to follow, and yet here he is, even after seeing me murder Ryan.
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
My laughter dies as I turn toward the bushes. “Come out, Songbird . I know you’re there.”
Wren steps from the shrubbery, dressed in black, eyes dark with something I’ve grown to covet.
Hunger.
Need.
Heat curls low in my stomach. My breath quickens. I’m acutely aware of how little my nightgown covers, the rain making the thin fabric cling to every curve. Wren doesn’t try to hide his appreciation as his gaze sweeps over me.
The rain eases. He says my name in a low, rasping growl. “Dove.”
Dropping the knife, I tear my mask off and break out in a run toward him. There’s no fear in his gaze, nothing but lust and admiration and relief to see that I’m okay shining in the depths of his deep brown eyes.
Wren bends, arms wide, waiting. I leap, crashing into him, locking my mouth to his. The impact knocks us backward, sending him sprawling onto the wet earth with me in his lap.
But it doesn’t stop us.
We’re a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth— desperate, insatiable. My fingers fly to unbutton his pants, freeing him. His hands tangle in my rain-soaked hair, pulling me impossibly closer, until there’s no space left between us. I shove my panties to the side to sink down onto his hard length with a shuddering gasp.
He groans. I whimper. We move as one, frenzied and raw, our bodies as wild as the storm raging around us. Wren grips the grass behind him, anchoring us as I grind against him, chasing the edge of my climax.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he moans with his head thrown back in bliss.
I tip mine toward the sky, eyes slipping shut as the heat coils tight, the rain mixing with sweat, with blood, with the heady rush of power and lust. It crests, bursting inside me, a violent, shuddering release.
White explodes behind my eyes. “Wren! I’m coming! Baby, I’m coming!”
“Me too. Fuck, Turtle Dove. Me too.”
His grip tightens at the back of my neck, pressing our foreheads together as his hips stutter against mine, his moan melting into my lips. We breathe each other in, the storm still crackling around us, the world reduced to nothing but this.
Wren kisses me softly, then shifts, pulling my legs more firmly around his waist .
“I was so fucking worried about you,” he murmurs.
I laugh lightly, nipping at his bottom lip.
“I told you—I can take care of myself.” Then, with a wicked grin, say, “I think my violence does turn you on, though. You have a thing for necrophilia.”
Wren makes a face, pulling back slightly. “Gross, Dove. That’s when someone has sex with dead bodies. Not next to them.”
I giggle. “Okay, so you have a thing for fucking next to dead bodies.”
“Only fucking you.” He grins, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to the tip of my nose before flexing his still semi-hard cock inside me. “Because you’re right. Watching you incite violence does turn me on.”