Epilogue 2
Blood sticks to the soles of my boots as I step over yet another dead body, only to land in more crimson soup.
Sunshine’s gonna be mad.
So very mad.
Okay. Maybe not mad. It’s Sunshine. But… he’ll be something.
I made a mess.
A big, big, big mess.
In the far corner of the nightclub, a group of women and two men cower in terror as strobe lights dance across the mood-lit room and techno music pumps through speakers.
This was a private pre-auction party that I was supposed to infiltrate. Well, I infiltrated it alright and served poisoned wine. I’ve been working on a new concoction and haven’t gotten a chance to try it out until today.
Dragging a hand down my face, I groan at the sea of bodies sprawled across the dance floor and the few still seated on chairs, face down on tables. Most of them are men. A few of them are women. All of them are dead as a doornail and leaking the contents of their bodies all over the ground. I don’t know what my wine did, but it broke something inside them, and now I’ve made a gory mess that resembles a water leak, if water was red, tacky, and smelled like pennies.
Fuck.
Reaching into my shirt, I withdraw a boob rock—red jasper—from my bra and crush it in my fist until it hurts. Expelling a rush of air between my lips, I close my eyes and center myself.
Everything is going to be okay.
It’s just a little blood.
The phone in my back pocket vibrates. Chewing my inner cheek, I pull it free and don’t have to look to know who’s calling.
It’s him—my husband.
I may have been too busy losing my shit for the past hour that I forgot to call him and check in. Or… I may have been avoiding it because of this epic whoopsie.
Seeing his picture on the screen, a brief smile lights my face, but it’s gone a moment later when the dread of coming clean settles in my gut.
Happy six-month wedding anniversary to us.
Shaking my head, I connect the call as I stare at the mess of bodies, hoping one of them, just one, didn’t puke up blood, for Sunshine’s sake. This is going to take hours.
“Sweets,” my husband’s deep, sexy voice greets me, but I can barely hear him over the music.
“Hold on, babe!” The song switches, and I wade through the chaos to the DJ booth on a brightly colored stage. As I ascend the steps to shut down the noise, I find the masked DJ slumped on the floor, his back against the wall, blood pouring down his impressively muscled, bare chest into his lap, where it looks like he tried to catch it in his hands. His eyes are wide. Dead and wide. Staring straight ahead.
Stepping over his foot, I flip several switches on the soundboard to shut down the music.
“There. That’s better.” I sigh.
“I’m on my way,” Sunshine explains, and I overhear the turn signal click on in the background.
Drawing a heart in the puddle of blood with the toe of my boot, I mumble, “You need to call in an extra pair of hands.”
Sunshine turns down his music. “More people? Angel’s behind me.”
“You need to call more than Angel.”
“Sweets. What happened?”
“I made a bigger mess.” That’s the understatement of the century.
“Ah. Okay. No problem. I’ve got you, babe. See you soon.” The call ends, and I busy myself until my husband shows up to help me handle this shit show.
Pointing to the corpses, I count the number of people I murdered today out loud.
“One.” The naked man with a hairy Chewbacca ass on the floor by the bar. He has a tribal armband tattoo.
“Two. Three. Four. Five.” Businessmen, still clothed, deceased on the floor beside their chairs. Two of them spewed blood and wine in each other’s faces on their downward spiral to the afterlife .
“Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” I squeeze my eyes shut and magically wish the mess away so my husband doesn’t get stuck with my failure. It’s a cosmic Hail Mary, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Miracles can happen. If this were a Disney movie, I’d be a plant whisperer, and vines would magically show up to dispose of everything. If only real life were that easy.
Blowing out a breath, I refocus on my still gore-coated surroundings, finish counting my kills—seventeen total—and turn to the survivors.
Not wanting to spook the men and women, I approach them slowly, where they’re huddled behind a table. “We’re gonna get you out of here,” I promise, with my palms out so they know I’m not threatening.
One of the men, naked as the day he was born, steps in front of six equally nude women. He’s young. Maybe nineteen. Crossing both arms over his chest, lips set into a grim line, he flexes as if ready for a fight. I get it. They were brought here against their will. To be slaves to the rich fucks now dead on the floor. I was hired as the bartender for the evening. They were fondled and fucked and used as toys for the pleasure of others. I watched it happen.
One of the girls was strapped to a table for most of the night. Five different men ran a train on her.
Fucking disgusting.
And there I was, pasting on a smile, flirting, and serving them spirits and wine.
My wine.
Ugh. I really need to work on that recipe.
“I have friends coming to bring you someplace safe. I promise.” I toe the arm of a dead man out of my way and stay on the far side of the table to give everyone plenty of space to breathe.
A redhead seated on the floor sobs into her hands.
The blonde next to her pats the woman’s shoulder in support.
“What the hell happened here?” the man protecting them asks, nodding toward the floor littered with death. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. If he’s been in this world long enough, there’s no telling how much this young man has seen or been through.
“I miscalculated the wine,” I admit, choosing to go with the truth rather than some made-up lie he wouldn’t believe anyhow.
A mop of dark hair falls when he cocks his head to the side, curious. “Wine?”
Walking over to a nearby table, I lift an empty bottle of the deadly potion. “This is my wine.”
The young man thinks for a beat before he responds. “You poisoned them?”
Bingo.
“Yes.” I set the bottle next to another empty one. I have an entire case of empties to collect before we leave tonight.
“Why?” he asks, assessing me as if he doesn’t know what to make of a woman causing this much chaos.
It’s a good question and one I often ponder. Why did I follow in my mother’s footsteps? Why do I continue to use my knowledge to help the Sacred Sinners? Why do I like killing people? I guess like isn’t the right word. Save is. I like to save people from those who do them harm. Those I poison aren’t innocent. They deserve the pain. They deserve to rot.
“It’s what I do,” I answer with a shrug. “What I’m good at. Usually, it’s much cleaner than this.” I gesture to the gore. “I was testing a new formula, and as you can see, it didn’t go as planned.”
Just as the man nods and relaxes his stance as if he’s satisfied with my explanation, the front door of the warehouse opens. In struts, my hotter-than-sin husband wearing a pair of dark denim jeans, a gray t-shirt that matches his eyes, and his Sacred Sinners cut. Right on his tail are the reinforcements.
Inspecting the space, Sunshine smirks but doesn’t say a word as he climbs over multiple corpses to reach me.
Cupping the side of my face, he chuckles, all warm and gooey, like an underbaked brownie. “You did make a mess.”
“See. I told you. I am really sorry.”
“Awe. It’s not a problem, Sweets. This is what I do. You make messes, and I clean ‘em up. Yeah?”
“I suppose so. Yeah,” I mumble, wishing this night had gone smoother and he didn’t have to witness my fuckup in all its fuckup glory. I thought the poison would have done what it normally does—make their hearts race, pass out, and maybe someone would puke, but I didn’t anticipate this. Two of them bled from their eyes. At least it didn’t take long once it started—fifteen minutes, at most, and they were gone.
From behind the bar, Angel lifts the basket of cell phones and wallets I collected for them to gather intel. “Got the loot. ”
“Put it in my van,” Sunshine orders, and Angel nods as a small group of bikers get to work, rolling out thick sheets of plastic to dispose of the bodies.
A buff biker I haven’t seen in ages whistles as he strolls inside and approaches the victims. “Nice job, Kali.” Bonez, the man in charge of helping the survivors of trafficking get back on their feet, lifts a hand in greeting.
I return the gesture. “Thanks for coming, Bonez.”
“Anytime.” Doing what he does best, he speaks to the men and women to get them out of here and someplace safe, like I promised.
My husband hooks his fingers in the front of my orange, blood-stained boho pants and pulls me flush against him. The thick, firm snake hidden in his pants imprints against my belly. I tuck my boob rock into the front pocket of his jeans, then circle my arms around his neck and rest my chin in the center of his pecs to look up at him.
Someone’s turned on.
Naughty, naughty man.
“Happy six-month anniversary, Sweets.”
“Has it been six months already?” I tease, and my husband growls.
We've celebrated our union every month since we said I do. This might sound lame to some, but not to Sunshine. He’s determined to commemorate each of our milestones.
The first time we had shower sex—he bought me a cake. Sugar made it. Double chocolate. Absolutely divine. We ate it off each other in bed. It was a fun night. Messy but fun.
The next day, since we’d had our first cake sex, he bought me a new plant and wrote me a silly poem.
Roses are red, frosting’s delish,
Your cake’s so sweet—I’ll eat it twice.
Thrice.
Forever yours, in mischief and joy,
Colton.
A year ago, if you told me this is what relationships could look like, I’d call the cops to have you placed in the nearest mental ward.
But here we are, standing in a puddle of blood, in the center of a massacre, and there’s my husband staring down at me in the sweetest, soft-eyed way.
I kiss the center of his chest.
He wraps a possessive hand around the base of my neck. “I want you to go change your clothes and sit in your truck while I clean up.”
“I can help.”
“No.” Sunshine shakes his head firmly. “This is my job. To take care of you. Now, go sit in the truck and put some music on. When we’re done, I’ll have one of the brothers take my van so I can drive us home.”
“But—”
His grip tightens, shutting me right up. “No, buts, babe. Do as you’re told.”
“ But,” I sass, nodding toward my whoopsie. “ It’s my mess.”
“No. You’re my old lady, so your mess is now my mess. I’ve got it. I can handle it. I can handle you. You did good.” To cement his point, Sunshine pecks my forehead .
“I fucked up.”
“No. You didn’t. You completed the job.”
Not agreeing with his assessment, I frown.
Wrinkling his nose at me, Sunshine growls and, in one fluid motion, nudges me away long enough to toss me over his shoulder. Carrying me from the warehouse, blood from my pants dripping down his front, my husband spanks my ass as we cross the gravel parking lot.
Trying to wiggle free and keep his hand from landing another blow, I squeak in protest. “Stop! Hey! Put me down.”
The brute rumbles in laughter. “You’re gonna learn, Sweets. You’re gonna learn.”
Sliding me down his front at the back of my Bronco fitted with fake plates, Sunshine opens the rear, spins me around, shucks my pants and panties down to my knees, and bends me over.
The only notice I get of what he’s about to do is the rip of his zipper before he grips my hips and impales me on his thick cock.
Back arching, my eyes squeeze shut, and I cry out at the intrusion—loving it, wanting it, needing it far more than I deserve.
Another blow radiates across my bottom… burning… burning… burning as he ruins me.
“Happy Anniversary, Sweets.”
“Colton,” I gasp and prop my hands on the floor of my Bronco to keep from face-planting as he punishes my pussy.
Spitting on my rim to use as lube, he pushes a finger inside my ass. “Christ woman, you killin’ people turns me the fuck on.” Thrusting harder, his balls slap my clit over and over until my legs begin to tremble, and my eyes roll into the back of my head.
“Colton,” I moan, needing a little more. Just a little. I’m almost there.
“Tell me, Sweets. Tell me, you love makin’ em bleed for me.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
Tipping my hips for the perfect angle, I rasp, “I love making them bleed for you.”
“Tell me, you’re fuckin’ perfect. Say it, Sweets. Say, I’m fuckin’ perfect.”
“I… I’m…” Almost there. My toes curl in my boots.
“Perfect. Say it.”
“I’m… perfect.”
“Hell, yes, you are. So, no more fuckin’ apologizin’ for the messes you make... Now come on my cock, sweetheart. Make a damn mess.”
Obeying her master, my pussy does as she’s told and clamps around his dick as pleasure rockets through my core. Splashes of cum paint the ground, and the world blacks out as everything shatters before it’s stitched back together in perfect harmony.
Never one to leave me needing more, my husband fucks me into oblivion as the cool night air caresses my bottom, blending with the heat as he switches between feeding me his perfect cock and spanking me.
“That’s it, Sweets. You did so good,” he praises, his voice tender. “Give me another.”
Bending to his will, I relinquish full control and bask in the ecstasy. I come when he wants me to come. I moan when he forces me to moan, and I love it. Every. Single. Second.
When I’m wrung dry, my legs overcooked noodles, and my ass pleasantly sore, I cling to him as he helps me into the back of my Bronco and undresses me.
I stifle a yawn.
“I’ve got you, Sweets. Arms up.” Sunshine tugs the edge of my shirt over my head and drops it onto the ground to burn with the rest of my bloodied garments.
I liked that shirt. We had good times, me and that shirt. Had I not messed up, we would have spent many more years together.
To help him along, I reach around and unclasp my bra.
“I’ve got it,” he rumbles, dragging the straps down my arms. It, too, joins my discarded belongings as I cup my bare breasts. Not that there’s anybody out here to see. We’re away from prying eyes, next to a field in the middle of nowhere. The brothers are inside, still cleaning up.
Goosebumps flare across my bare skin. My dear husband notices and rubs his warm palms up and down my arms. “Shit. Give me a minute. Let me get you some clothes.” Lifting one of my hands to his lips, he kisses the back, then pats my knee before racing to the backseat of my SUV, where I keep my extra outfit, just in case.
Back in a flash, Sunshine stuffs an oversized t-shirt over my head before awkwardly helping me into a pair of leggings.
“I can do it,” I grunt, trying to lift my bottom to get the stretchy fabric over my hips .
My husband chuckles. “I know you can. But touching you is better.” To prove his point, the wicked man cups my breast and leans in to capture my lips in a searing kiss that leaves us both breathless, ready for round two.
“No more.” I shove his chest away so he doesn’t get any ideas.
Stepping back, Sunshine puts his hands up. “Fine. Fine.” He smirks, too damn attractive for his own good.
“You’re bad,” I tease, wagging a finger at him.
“So are you, my sexy wife. Now, let’s get you settled in.”
Knowing he has a job to do, I don’t put up a fight when he carries me to the passenger side of my SUV, reclines the seat back, and turns on music.
Leaning into the vehicle, he kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Get some rest. I love you.”
“I love you more,” I yawn.
Cheeks flushing like he doesn’t know how to respond, Sunshine shakes his head, smiles adorably, and shuts me inside to be serenaded by our favorite rock stars. Resting my feet on the dashboard, I watch his tight, biteable ass retreat into the warehouse to do what he does best—take care of me. I’m a lucky woman.
Minutes later, I’m asleep.
Hours later, a strong set of arms carries me into our house, where he strips us naked in the bathroom and ushers me into a hot shower just as the sun begins to peek through the bathroom window.
Still half asleep, I wrap my arms around his middle and snuggle my cheek to his wet pec.
The sweetest man in existence squirts shampoo onto the top of my head. “I don’t know how you got blood in your hair, but ya did,” he rumbles, scrubbing my scalp better than any salon. It’s heavenly. I groan to communicate as such, and he laughs quietly like he’s trying not to rouse me any more than necessary, yet refuses to let me go to bed covered in other people’s DNA.
Remind me later to thank him for his benevolence. Between this and the warehouse fiasco, the man deserves a long, albeit deliciously painful, blowjob. The kind that leaves him begging to come and me eager to swallow him whole.
When Sunshine finishes rinsing the suds away, he washes my body before tending to his. I lean against the shower wall, floating between asleep and awake as he finishes, shuts the water off, and grabs us towels. Kneeling on the ground before me like a subject worshipping at the feet of his queen, I rest my hands on his broad shoulders as he carefully pats every inch of me dry before standing to dry himself.
“Come on, Sweets. Let’s get to bed.” Pressing a hand into the middle of my back, he steers me into our bedroom, where I dramatically fall onto the mattress and snuggle my face into the best pillow in the world.
He chuckles, and the bed dips beside me.
I don’t know why I’m so tired, but I feel like I could sleep for a week. It’s probably stress. Isn’t it always stress? Motherhood. Married life. Business owner. Perimenopause. You know, the basics of being a woman. It can take a lot out of a person. Add the stress of planning not only one kill but multiple kills on top of playing the part of an airheaded bartender, and I’m ready for a vacation. Someplace warm. On the beach, where my husband has to wear the tiniest shorts. The kind that hot men wear to show off their muscles and tattoos. Your overexcited ovaries know the ones I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. Sure, Sunshine doesn’t own a pair of said shorts yet, but he will when we go to the beach, where I can ogle the hell out of the hunk while I drink wine and eat chocolate. Maybe they’ll have flamingos on them. Or little motorcycles. I’ll talk to him about it later after I sleep.
Needing to be closer to my man, I roll over and rest my head on his chest. Sunshine tucks an arm around me, hugging me against his warm side. I hitch a leg over his, melding as one as he claims my hand and sets it on his brand—the forever mark he wears for me.
Tracing around the scarred K on his upper thigh, close to his groin, I kiss his pec.
He hums in contentment. “I know I should be tired. But I’m not.”
“Mmmm,” I mumble, not on the same wavelength. He’s always jazzed up after a job. I get it—the addictive adrenaline high.
Sunshine presses his lips to the top of my head. “I hope you know, findin’ you that day in the nursing home is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers, bathing my hair in his warm breath.
Emotions clog my throat as my finger stalls at the tip of the K. “Babe…” There go those silly butterflies again.
Him finding me in the nursing home that day is the best thing to ever happen to me, too. I wouldn’t have the life I do without him. Not my kids. Not my business. Nothing .
“Here.” Sliding my wedding ring off his pinkie, where he protects it when I work for the club, my husband rolls me onto my back and slips it into its rightful place.
“Thank you for keeping it safe.” I stare in awe at the black gem and sigh wistfully at how my life has played out.
Six months officially married, and I don’t know if this will ever feel real.
It still seems like a dream most days.
Waking up with him here—the same us but more. Happier. Smiling. Content.
“Always,” he whispers, lifting my knuckles to his mouth, eyes locked on mine. “’Til death do us part, Sweets. ‘Til death do us part.” Flashing me a panty-melting smile, Sunshine kisses me there before tucking me back against his body, where I continue to trace the brand until I can no longer hold my eyelids open.
Yes. ‘Til death do us part.
Forever.
Us.
Kali and Colton.
The murderess and her handsome cleaner.
The End