Stalked Beneath Heat Lightning

Chapter 1

ONE

THE MASKED MAN

I fucking loved hunting people.

It wasn’t glamorous. Tucked away in a dark alley, I’d spent three nights in a row hunkered behind a dumpster that stank of rot, with no airflow to relieve my watering eyes.

The summer night remained hot even though the sun had set an hour ago, and the decaying food waste—among other organic matter that was better left unmentioned—gave the alley an unnaturally swampy feel.

I plucked at the knit mask covering my face, desperate for a cool breeze. My air-conditioned car called to me, sweeter than any siren song, but I couldn’t move just yet.

Not until my target did.

Across the alley from where I hid, Joseph Weber took one last drag from his cigarette and flicked it away.

His ever-growing clump of spent butts shifted closer and closer each day to a pile of plywood and leaf debris stacked up against the brick exterior of his place of work, but that didn’t seem to concern him.

I wouldn’t lose sleep over it, either. He wouldn’t be alive long enough for it to matter.

Despite the overflowing trash bins reeking of spoiled dairy and piss, I was exactly where I wanted to be. There was something about the way people acted when they thought they were alone and unobserved that made my blood sing.

Now, I didn’t mean walking around the house naked after showering, talking to yourself, or rubbing one out before bed. Everyone did that. None of it phased me anymore. One thing I’d learned from all my years of people watching was there were surprisingly few original human experiences.

I also wasn’t referencing the vile things my targets did to end up on my radar in the first place. The fact that they raped, murdered, or liked watching kids at the playground a little too much may be the reason I was there, but I didn’t want to be around when they did it.

I was a killer, not a pervert. The distinction mattered.

To me, anyway.

No. What made my heart whoosh in my ears more than anything else, more than sex or a good meal or canceled social obligations, was the unguarded drop of someone’s shoulders just before I slid my knife across their throat.

It was the slow, easy breathing of a beast that didn’t know a bigger, hungrier predator lurked in the shadows of their room, waiting to pounce.

It was the way Joseph Weber stared down at his glowing phone screen, completely unaware his demise waited behind an overflowing dumpster twenty yards away.

Yeah. I lived and breathed for the hunt.

Afterwards, things just got messy. I cared very little for the dying words of a pedophile, and even less about offering dignity in death.

I did care about going to prison, though. All that bright light and noise twenty-four-seven was a hard pass. A few faces flashed through my mind; the ones who would suffer the most should my life, and thus theirs, become a criminal trial circus.

I cared about them, too.

So, I was careful. I lived by a few simple rules that ensured I wasn’t caught by the police, or worse, someone avenging an old target: keep calm, plan ahead, and don’t leave any witnesses.

Oh, and don’t be a hero. Getting caught up in trying to save every innocent person from the evils of humanity wasn’t productive. I did what I could and slept easier for it.

Just as my target lit up his second cigarette, the heavy metal door behind him swung open, and a figure stood next to him under the lone street light.

I sat up.

“Hot in there,” the newcomer said, fanning the hem of his shirt while his eyes flicked to my target and then away.

I couldn’t discern their color from this distance, but his hair shone golden under the fluorescent glow, and the eyeglasses perched on his slightly upturned nose accentuated his high cheekbones. He coughed when a plume of smoke drifted into his face.

“Well, you’re out here now, so it’ll cool down soon enough,” Weber answered with a leering wink.

I bared my teeth at the way the boy blushed. I couldn’t scent him, not with the heavy cigarette smoke masking everything else, but he looked… warm. Tasty. Like the gooey center of a cinnamon roll.

No one should blush for Joseph fucking Weber, least of all someone so soft. He clearly had no concern for giving the boy second-hand smoke-induced health problems. Or for committing negligent arson.

Or for being a serial rapist.

Pulling out my phone, I tucked back against the alley wall and turned the brightness all the way down before shooting off a quick text message.

Who’s the blonde working with our target?

The reply was quick. It always was when I was on a job.

…

There are a few. Which one?

Along with the reply came a handful of photos. Quickly scanning, I found him.

Number three. With the glasses.

Weber said something else that had the boy blushing again before he put out his cigarette, this time squishing it beneath his boot, and sauntered back inside. The blonde watched him go, then leaned against the light pole and stared up at the smoke-obscured sky.

Under the harsh light, his lashes were long enough to cast a shadow across his cheeks. Sweat beaded along his nape, curling the fine hairs at the base of his skull.

It seemed almost indecent to bare the back of his soft, delicate neck like that. I bet it smelled fresh.

The perfect place to leave a mark.

The quiet buzz of my phone pulled my attention away. I shook off my distracted haze—clearly, I needed more rest—and zoomed in on the screenshot of a driver’s license.

Name: Max Mayweather

Sex: Male

Designation: Omega

Birthday: May 13th, 2003

Eye color: Brown

Height: 5’9”

Weight: 175lbs

I balked at the birth year beginning with a two, but then realized that meant he was twenty-three years old. Fully an adult. Fucking hell. I was only five years older, but that two was jarring.

Everything about the omega screamed INNOCENT. It set my canines on edge.

Glancing back up, my eye caught on the way he bit his lip and smiled down at something on his phone. Was he still thinking about Weber? Or was someone else making him smile? Another piece-of-shit alpha who was absolutely no good for an omega like him?

Why was he drawn to a scumbag like that, anyway? Was he lonely? My God, get a hobby. Or a friend. Not me, obviously. But someone who could tell him he deserved better.

Maybe he was completely deficient in situational awareness instincts. Self-defense classes were useful, but not cheap. I doubted he had the budget, working at a place like this.

Or, maybe he was just drawn to the tortured frat boy look. Tall, with brown hair, wide shoulders, and a perpetual sneer, Joseph Weber was the type to look harmless while concealing the monster underneath.

Something dark simmered in my chest, like raking an ancient bed of coals back to life until they glowed red. I reached for the hilt of my knife, squeezing tightly.

I could show the omega the frightening reality of desiring a dangerous man. I could scare it out of him entirely. I should scare it out of him. It would be the easiest thing in the world to step out of the shadows, brandish the knife, and send him screaming.

Doe-eyed Max Mayweather didn’t even belong in the same zip code as a man like Weber. Or a man like me, for that matter.

But that would mean blowing my cover.

I could send in an anonymous tip to the police hotline with all of the evidence I’d collected proving Joseph Weber was, in fact, the serial rapist who’d plagued Plover Bay for the last three years. I’d submitted tips before, to varying degrees of success.

But no. As much as the pretty omega needed some sense scared into him, I couldn’t forget the horrific details of what he did to his victims.

This time, justice was mine to serve.

A blessedly cool breeze cleared the remaining smoke drifting through the high alley walls. I leaned in, taking my first deep breath in hours that didn’t smell like a week-old trash bin, and nearly growled at the scent I inhaled.

The omega.

At first all I caught was fresh sweat mixed with unscented deodorant, exhaustion, and the sear of meat on a burning grill. But then, sifting through the top notes, I detected what lay underneath the evidence of hard work in a cramped restaurant kitchen.

My eyes fluttered, nostrils flaring at the bright omega pheromones, pulling me in like a mirrorball. Sweet and hot, he smelled of freshly baked bread and vanilla.

Delicious. Beguiling. Very, very forbidden.

Without realizing it, I took one step too far out of the shadows. His gaze snapped up, finding me immediately and pinning me in place. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

I was in my full gear; masked up with a dark hoodie and pants. There was no way he could ever identify me if interviewed about the man lurking in the shadows days before his friend turned up dead.

So why did I feel stripped bare before him?

Before I could react, his mouth parted, and he took a step closer, his scent shifting into something richer, like butter simmering on the stove. It wasn’t quite the char of terror, but more like the thrum of a small, racing heart when exploring something new and dangerous.

Like the omega in him sensed the alpha in me.

An unfamiliar feeling bowled me over. I wanted to wrap my teeth around that warm, fluttering creature until its pulse settled, safe on my tongue.

I’m the only monster who gets to know what the inside of you tastes like, that dark beast in me growled.

Another breeze picked up, blowing a rattling can down the alley. The racket startled us both. As if he could hear my thoughts for the blaring warning they really were, he turned and darted inside.

So. The omega could sense danger, after all. Good.

Not good, the alpha in my chest growled, raking his claws over the coals again.

I sighed and stepped back into the shadows. Feral thoughts aside, I may be the bigger monster, but I didn’t hurt omegas like Max Mayweather.

Joseph Weber did, though. And every day he still breathed the same air as that pretty thing in the kitchen was a fucking problem.

I couldn’t shake the image of that sweet, blushing face. He deserved to keep that blush and give it to someone worthy. Someone who didn’t hurt innocent people.

Someone who wouldn’t hurt him.

It almost had me ready to break my rules and kill the bastard tonight, plans be damned. Almost. But hastiness led to mistakes, and I liked to have as much intel on a target as possible before they noticed I was following them.

Still. I’d keep an eye on the omega, too. Just until the threat was gone. If Weber hurt him while I was on his tail, I wouldn’t be able to shake the guilt that had I acted sooner, I could’ve stopped it.

It wasn’t heroics. It was just minimizing the damage. That was all.

The flutter of the omega’s pulse at his throat danced through my mind. It would be such a shame if something that sweet were to ever sour.

Settling back in next to the dumpster, I shook off the pull toward that beautiful, naive thing and his addictive, wary curiosity.

We would never meet. After my target was dead, I’d disappear from his world forever. I wouldn’t wish becoming acquainted with the depravity of humanity on anyone, especially someone as soft and unmarred by life as him.

And that meant he would never know me or the dark things I did in the shadows to keep someone like him, someone made for the light, safe.