Chapter Eight
I need to get my head back on the mission, to remember why I started this, but that masked asshole with a tongue to die for is fucking up my plans. Well… kind of. He did save me, which counts for something, but still, he’s a complication.
Sterling just lost his head of security, and that could mean two very different things: either he’s suddenly easier to get to, or he’ll disappear into the shadows until the coast is clear. I’m hoping for the first, but knowing my luck, it’s the second.
It’s been over a day now, and there’s still nothing, no Sterling at his usual spots, not even at his work, and I can’t force him out from whatever hideaway he’s in, so I’m stuck in my apartment, trying to think, but all my brain can dig out is the masked asshole!
I flick the TV on. I don’t care what’s on, I just need to hear another voice. Something that isn’t in my head, something that might drown out the thoughts about the killings… about him.
I’m not even paying attention when the screen shifts to a reporter, standing in front of a collapsed building.
My building.
My hideout. The one place I could change, prepare, vanish into the dark without anyone knowing I was ever there.
They burned it. Burned it to the fucking ground.
Those three bastards lit up the only safe place I had and walked away like it meant nothing. Like I’m not going to come for them.
They’re wrong.
I’m going to kill every single one of them, after I find them. And finding them? That’s probably going to be easier than getting close to Sterling right now. At least it gives me something to do, something to wrap my hands around instead of sitting here, unraveling.
I pull on the black dress. One of three I own, but this one fits me like a glove, I look at my shoes and go for the black combat boots.
They are old but strong enough to kick a massive, masked man in the balls if I need to.
My hair falls in loose waves, and my makeup is simple: black eyeliner and red lipstick.
The last thing I grab is my new knife. It fits better in my hand than the last one did. Heavier. Stronger. Deadlier.
I hope
Tonight, I’ll put it to use—my masked stalker told me my old one sucked. Still got the job done. He wasn’t wrong, though.
One last look in the mirror, and my breath hitches—the glass doesn’t just reflect me, it drags me back. Back to his hands locking me in place, to the heat of his breath through that mask, to the relentless stroke of his tongue. The kind of hunger you don’t come back from.
It’s all there in the shimmer of my own eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted. My reflection wears the same look I had when he made me come, the same slack, wrecked mouth. I can still feel the tremor in my thighs, the ache in my core, the way my fingers clawed for something, anything, to hold on to.
I don’t even know his name. Haven’t seen his face, and yet somehow, that makes it worse. Better. Both. Oh my fucking God!
He’s a ghost in black leather and blood, a phantom who didn’t flinch when he saw what I’d done.
He watched me cut two men’s balls off, stitch them into my shame socket ritual, and instead of running away… he devoured me. He pulled me apart until there was nothing left, just heat and heartbeat and the wrecked sound of my own voice breaking. The worst part?
I’m standing here now, staring at myself in the mirror, wishing he’d do it again.
We’re both insane. Fucked up. Dangerous. The kind of broken that shouldn’t even exist in the same room, let alone share air. I can lie to myself all I want, but it won’t change the truth.
I want to see him again.
Not just because I want revenge from burning the building down but because there’s something in him that makes my entire body tense, that makes my breath catch. So let’s see if I can draw him out tonight.
The club is only half full when I walk in, early enough that I can see the crowd clearly. Perfect. I might not know his face, but that height, that frame, the way a hoodie drapes over his wide shoulders and tapers to a narrow waist… not many men in this city look like that.
Time to fish the Eidolon-masked sex god out of hiding.
I move through the room slowly, scanning until I spot the one who will, unfortunately for him, be my bait. He’s not someone I plan to kill, but he’ll do just fine to make my wolf show himself.
I walk towards him, and lean in. “Hi there,” I murmur near his neck, close enough for my breath to ghost over his skin.
He turns, grinning as if he’s already won something. “Hey there, gorgeous.” His hands slide onto my hips without asking, claiming me with that entitled touch men use when they think they’ve been invited.
I want to cut off every single one of his fingers.
Baby steps.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I would’ve noticed an angel.” He leans in, breath hot against my ear, voice slick and rehearsed. His hands creep lower, curling around my back and I fight the urge to gag.
“That’s so…” Fucking stupid. “…Sweet,” I say, forcing a smile.
His right hand slides lower, slipping toward my ass, but before I can do or say anything he screams. The sound echoes over the music, people move out of the way, and there he is.
Tall. Still. Terrifying.
Black jeans. Black hoodie. That balaclava with the single red slash, a scar carved in cloth.
“You broke my fingers!” the guy howls, clutching his mangled hand, but I barely hear him. My eyes are locked on the masked man, his chest rises and falls, ready to charge, and my pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
He doesn’t speak, just moves and I bolt, shoving past startled clubbers, ignoring the shouts and the phone lights flashing as someone yells for help.
The back door slams against the wall as I tear through it, boots hitting the cobblestone.
The cold slams into me, freezing air burning my lungs, adrenaline clawing through my veins.
I round the corner and press myself to the wall, chest heaving. My fingers slide to my thigh. I pull my knife free, blade up and ready. I wait, breath locked, for him to follow.
I wait, and wait for nothing.
Did he leave?
Shit.
I lean out to check—
A massive hand clamps around my throat, and I scream, but it’s cut off as he slams me into the brick with enough force to drive the air from my lungs. My head spins, the knife is still in my hand, but before I can drive it forward, he catches my wrist and pins it like it’s nothing.
“You’re getting on my last nerve, hellcat,” he growls, voice thick and raw, the fabric of his mask brushing my skin.
He smells like expensive cologne, dark and masculine, and my mind spins.
“Which nerve?” I manage, tilting my chin until I’m staring into the shadowed void where his eyes should be. “You’ve got seven trillion. You need to be more specific.”
He laughs, whole body shaking with it. Low. Dangerous. The kind of sound you hear just before the fall.
His grip tightens, cutting most of my air.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, trying to make me jealous,” he says, voice rough velvet as the mask grazes my cheek, then my ear, and a shiver rips down my spine.
“It worked,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I—” My hands claw at his wrist as panic flutters at the edges of my vision. “I can’t… breathe.” My lungs burn, my eyes feel like they will pop out of my sockets, but he doesn’t let go.
“I know, hellcat,” he murmurs, soft as sin. “Just let go. I’m not going to hurt you.”
My vision tunnels.
My knees buckle.
My body gives out.
I jump, lungs dragging for air, heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. That motherfucker choked me until I passed out!
My eyes get used to light as my brain still spins, and I notice I’m in a massive room.
The walls are painted black, swallowing the low light, and old gothic paintings glare from thick carved frames.
At the center sits a bed, carved from heavy wood, dressed in red satin sheets that glint wet as blood.
I scan everything, searching for a threat, then my gaze hooks on something in the corner, something I recognize!
The mirror.
I step towards it, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, every inch closer, the memory blooms hotter.
“You looked so beautiful coming in front of it.”
The voice rolls through me, deep and steady, the kind of calm that makes you more afraid, not less.
I turn slowly. He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over that broad chest, face hidden behind the damned balaclava.
“You almost killed me, asshole!” The words snap out before I can stop them. My hands fly up, needing something to throw, and my gaze catches on a steel plate-shaped ornament on a nearby shelf. My fingers twitch.
“That’s dramatic,” he says, voice steady and cold. His arms fall as he steps inside, slow and controlled. “It was either let you pass out or drug you. I chose the option that didn’t leave a chemical trail.”
His gaze drags down my body and back up. “And for the record… you looked beautiful unconscious in my arms.”
My stomach tightens. I hate that my skin prickles at the sound of his voice.
“You—”
Fuck it. Enough pretending I’m composed, I grab the steel plate and hurl it at his head, but he ducks without effort, making me want to scream.
He doesn’t laugh, just keeps moving toward me. Every step pushes the air heavier into my lungs. I straighten up in defiance, chin high, even as my pulse kicks harder.
“You wanted my attention, didn’t you?” His voice has dropped lower now, a dark heat curling around the words. “That’s why you let that fucker touch you.”
I stay silent.
“You were baiting me.” His voice sinks into a darker place. “I nearly carved that fucker’s face off when he touched you. You don’t get to do that again. Not unless you want someone dead.”
There’s no hesitation in his tone. No humor. Just bone-deep certainty.
My mouth goes dry.
Another step. Close enough I catch his scent: dark cologne underlaid with leather, my thighs tense before I can stop them.
“What do you want from me, Tamsin?” His voice drips with something heavier than lust. “My help? My protection? Or the way I make you come apart without laying a finger on you?”
Shit.
“I want answers,” I bite out, voice thinner than I’d like. “And I want revenge. You and your little posse of Halloween wannabes burned down my building.”
His hands spread in mock innocence. “It wasn’t really your building—”
“It was my hideout.” I take a step back and hate myself for it.
He exhales slowly, leaning against the bedpost. “Too much blood to clean. Bram’s blood. And…” his head tilts, “you dripped all over the floor when you came. I tried to lick it all up from you, but—”
“Oh my God.” My face burns so fast it makes me dizzy. “I was not dripping.”
“You were,” he says, calm as ever. “And I can’t wait to make you unravel like that again.”
He pushes off the bedpost, closing the space between us, making me back up until the wall finds my back. He doesn’t touch me, just places one strong, big hand next to my head and another next to my hips. He cages me against the wall, blocking everything with his massive figure.
“I can help you get to Sterling,” he murmurs, voice low, rough. “But we do it my way. You can still cut his balls off. I honestly don’t give a fuck about that, but I’m not letting you get into danger again.”
My heartbeat pounds. “Why do you care?” The words come out quiet. “You don’t even know me.”
His fingers brush under my chin, his thumb tilts my face toward his; the mask is so close my lips nearly brush the fabric.
“You’re doing this for your cousin,” He breathes out, his breath is warm, then he pauses for a second. “And as for—” He cuts himself off, and steps back before finishing the rest of the sentence, turns and walks toward the door.
“As for what?” I call after him, taking a step forward, heat flushing up my neck. “What?”
He stops but doesn’t turn, just tilts his head slightly.
“As for why I need to protect you… why I’d kill anyone who touches you…” His shoulders drop. “I don’t know, Tamsin. There’s just something in your darkness that completes mine.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I’m left standing here, heart pounding, breath stuck halfway up my throat.
I don’t know what to say.
I don’t even know what to feel.