Chapter 30 Bunny
“I think one of us should go with you.” Dove grabs my hand and squeezes, pouring her worry into the touch as much as I hear it in her voice.
“I’m not saying you’re not capable, Buns.
I just don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s New Year’s Eve.
Places are packed. This isn’t just a hard kill, it’s nearly impossible to pull off without getting caught. ”
“That’s why it’s perfect to do it tonight. People are shit-faced, and it’s easier to slip back into a crowd.”
The Tipsy Taco is already alive with the bustle of partygoers. Glittery confetti, shiny streamers, and shimmering balloons have transformed the space for the evening.
Instead of sitting at the bar like usual, Dove and I have a back-corner table, talking in hushed tones so no one overhears—even though we can barely hear each other over the music.
Wrenley gave us a moment alone, making up a reason to talk to Alex.
Things have been awkward since Thanksgiving when I all but outed myself to my best friend’s fiancé, but he graciously hasn’t brought it up, and for that, I’m thankful.
I know he supports Dove and likely doesn’t have an issue with me, but asking him to keep it from Hunter doesn’t sit right with me.
Dove is Wrenley’s world, and Hunter is his best friend.
He’s already carrying her secret, he doesn’t need to be burdened with mine as well.
And if I remain silent on the matter, it’s like he doesn’t know.
Girl math… or reasoning… or whatever.
Vixey flounces around in a sparkly rust-colored dress that looks like a shorter version of something you’d see in the 20s.
With it being a holiday, it’s busier than usual, and she’s working so hard a thin sheen of sweat glistens on her skin.
Alex keeps barking orders, his whole vibe dripping bitterness and apoplectic energy.
She scoops her curtain of honey hair up—teased and fluffed like the night we went dancing—fanning her neck while she waits for Alex to finish a round of drinks. He says something that screws her features in displeasure, lips pursing as if to hold in her words. Even Wrenley looks taken aback.
“Is Alex still not over the whole Todd thing?”
The Todd thing would be Todd Langston bursting into Vixey’s life like a wildfire—quick, all-consuming, and blazing with the heat of a thousand suns.
I can barely stand to be in the same room with them for fear of getting scorched by their sexual tension.
I’m horny enough as it is, I don’t need a catalyst.
They haven’t officially labeled their relationship, but Todd made it pretty damn clear to Alex that Vixey is off-limits.
“Don’t change the subject, missy!” Dove smacks my hand to regain my attention. But when my hazel eyes meet her cerulean blues, she rolls them and shrugs. “No, he’s not. And I feel bad because I’m team Tixey.”
“Please don’t tell me that’s what we’re calling them. Sounds like a pair of bloodsucking beasties.”
“Yep,” she pops her p. “Wren and I are team Dovely, you’re Hunny, and they’re Tixey.”
Dovely, Hunny, and Tixey.
“No, Dove. Just… no.” I sip my soda water and check my phone for a text from Hunter. Fortunately, he’s working tonight. So I won’t have to worry about him wondering where I am.
I have less than an hour before my meeting with Matthew Price at a seedy strip club in Midtown West. I’m going to get in, get slashy, and get back to Hunter’s before he notices I’m out doing murdery things.
“Uhhh, yes. Anyway, don’t change the subject. Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Her attention flicks to Wrenley, and I use the opening to gather my things.
Pushing my chair back, I kiss her cheek and stand.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll text you later. I don’t want to explain to your man why he can’t kiss you at midnight.”
“He could always come with?” she squeaks, barely audible over Pitbull’s “Tonight.”
“No, Love Dove. Now stop it. You’ve never been worried about me before.” My hand settles on my stomach as I give her a look. “Baby and I will be fine. I’ll call you later.”
“Fine.” Her shoulders slump, pink satin frills fluttering with her sigh at losing this round. “Love you.”
“Love you.” I wave to Vixey weaving through the crowd with a tray of drinks, turn—and nearly plow into Wrenley’s chest.
His hands on my shoulders steady me, and he bends to whisper, “Be safe. And for the love of god, please let Dove know you’re okay later.”
Standing to his full height, he bestows me with a wink—his perfectly styled dirty-blond locks making him look like some sort of Prince Charming—then steps around me. “Happy New Year, Bunny.”
As soon as I finish my mission, it will be.
New year. New me.
Tonight, the Shadow Siren sings her last song.
Heels?
Check.
Fit?
Appraising myself in the full-length mirror, I can’t help but think I look pretty damn cute. It echoes the outfit I wore the night Hunter and I met and proudly showcases my bump. I shrug into a long black leather trench and tuck my signature stilettos in my bag.
Check.
Scar putty?
In the en suite, I open the cosmetics organizer where I keep my special effects makeup. It holds a singular tub—scraped clean—of the stuff I use to make my cheek appear normal.
Shit.
“Well, fuck. What are we gonna do, baby girl?” Rubbing my stomach, I think through my options.
I could go without. It’s late and dark. People will be intoxicated and occupied. One night without hiding it won’t kill us. My foil stickers are more noticeable anyway and even though I’ve been going without them lately, they are still an identifiable mark. Plus, they’ll catch the light.
“Guess we’re going naked.”
I pack the rest and head downstairs to check on Yasha and Maru. Even though we’re a decent distance from the fireworks, sometimes the sound still carries, so I keep the boys sedated and comfy. Their ears barely flick from the giant donut bed in the living room.
Turning the TV on, I cue Inuyasha where I left off, sucking in a harsh breath when Faline kicks the second she hears the theme One Day, One Dream. “Rude, little girl, that’s one of Mommy’s favorites.”
If this child grows up hating this show, we’ll have problems.
Mentally running through my murder checklist, I double-check the lock and head down the stoop.
One step.
Two.
Wait.
Slowly turning, I frown at the piece of paper taped to my door. I didn’t see the white parchment when I opened it because I was distracted, but subconsciously, I must have glimpsed it when I turned away.
Odd. The camera never went off.
Goosebumps ripple my skin.
I peel the tape from the black wood, icy dread clawing down my throat as I unfold the letter.
Tick tock. 14 weeks. Time’s almost up, little rabbit.
This time, the cut-out letters are joined by a crayon drawing: a rabbit in a pool of blood, X’s for eyes.
Fear rattles my bones, filleting my flesh with razor-sharp revulsion.
Fourteen weeks. My due date.
No one knows that except Hunter, the girls, and Wrenley.
While Vixey and I got off to a shaky start, I consider her a friend now. There’s no way any of them did this.
A whoosh of air expels past my lips.
Breathe in. And out. In, in, out.
I haven’t started birthing class, but isn’t that how you control your anxiety about pushing a watermelon out of your vagina?
Shoving the letter in my bag, I check the camera, only to see it’s been smashed off the side of my house. Bits of hardware cling to the stone, but the unit’s gone.
No wonder the app didn’t notify me. Whoever left the letter must have come from the side and dismantled the device before taping the paper to my door.
Instinct says call Hunter, but I have a mission, and I don’t need his attention on me.
Just a few more hours and I’ll be free.
I’ll be free. And so will Monica Price.
Matthew Price lives in a well-to-do Jersey suburb full of husbands who tell their wives they’re working late in the city so they can party and fuck random women.
The difference between him and them, though, is he’s calculated and paranoid, which not only makes him a hard kill, it makes him dangerous.
But his paranoia is my gain. The strip club he picked is big, packed, and takes money for private dances that end in “happy endings” for the patrons and a bundle of cash for the strippers.
Directions wait for me in the encrypted app he insisted on when I put myself in his path and started this whole mission. It makes it easier, because all I have to do is go in and go straight to the room, no questions asked.
For an abusive asshole, Matthew is charming and handsome. But then again, most of them are.
Tall, thick chestnut hair, eyes like the underside of arctic glaciers. When I step in, his gaze goes straight to my stomach. He bites his bottom lip, deep chuckles filling the room over a house dance mix.
“Look at you,” he croons, crossing the room in slow strides. “You’re a vision.”
I resist flinching as he smooths a thumb over my scar. It’s an intimate trail I’ve come to associate with Hunter, and I hate that this man is tracing the same line.
A shudder racks me when Matthew’s thumb dips to stretch my bottom lip. “Fuck, I missed you.”
I let the Siren take over and melt into seduction mode. I was working Matthew before he left, and I know what he needs to drop his guard.
Smoothing my hands up his chest, I pout. “You were gone so long. I was getting lonely.”
Bile catapults up my esophagus as I push him toward the big booth circled around a platform with a gleaming pole. The light is dim, casting golden shafts over the black interior.
“Why don’t you get comfortable and I’ll get you a drink.”
He loves the doting-wife scene—the “it’s his right” fantasy. No surprise he willingly agrees.
“Lose the jacket. I want to see your stomach,” he says, loosening his tie. For someone with a breeding kink, it baffles me he hit his pregnant wife.