Chapter 13
LEONORE
One of the perks of my job is that I can assess whether an injury is going to be fatal, and thankfully, Nessa’s is not.
“Thanks, Soph,” I say to her. She nods and looks back to the club.
“Do you know him?” She throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I mean, do you think we will still have a job? I kind of need the money desperately.” I can feel Nessa watching me and waiting for an answer to Soph’s question.
“I do not know him, but he is a client of mine,” I tell her and pull back. “We should go, before they all come out. I can drop you off at home, but then I have to go back to work.”
“To clean up the mess?” Nessa asks. I don’t deny or confirm in front of Soph. The fewer people who know about my job, the better.
Soph seems to miss it, however, as she says at the same time, “I can take you to mine until Leo finishes work. What time do you have the sitter until?” Soph asks Nessa.
Nessa grows uncomfortable, most likely because she doesn’t want to put anyone out or have a fuss made over her. “I can come to your work,” Nessa says to me, and I try to soften my expression.
“No, you know I work in silence. And my workplace is boring. Most importantly, you hate it there.” Nessa looks at me, and I instantly feel bad.
She’s shaken, and I understand that. But going to a morgue seems to put only me in good spirits.
“I’ll come collect you when I’m done. Go and rest.” She nods slowly but lets Soph lead her to her car.
I stay where I am until they drive off. Once I can no longer see their headlights, I turn to go to my car and freeze.
There he is. Leaning against my car, as if he has a right to.
Arms crossed and watching me with those fucking intense blue eyes that look almost black in the dark.
“Yes?” I say, walking over to him. His eyes drag me up and down.
“Do you own a different color in your wardrobe?” he asks me.
“Yes, now move.”
“You always wear black jeans, why?” I huff out a breath of annoyance.
“They’re comfortable,” I tell him, and open the back door to throw my purse in. When I close it, he has moved and now stands directly behind me. “Why do you wear only black?” I throw at him.
“Because I look good in it.” His mouth twitches at his words as he stares down at me. He does look good in it, asshole. “Graves.”
“Hmm,” I answer, still looking at him. Neither one of us is avoiding eye contact.
“Who taught you to shoot?”
My stomach sinks. There it is. The actual question.
My frosty wall is immediately up because I can’t let anyone get too close to the truth.
However, I remind myself that it’s not that uncommon for people to know how to handle a gun.
And sometimes answering honestly is the best way to throw off a scent.
“My teacher,” I say nonchalantly.
“Teacher?”
“Yes, my high school teacher,” I say, smiling.
She was fierce, and while at first she hated me, I like to say I grew on her.
She hated that I was alone, and one day after school, when I was walking home, she pulled up next to me and told me to get in.
I hesitated at first, but despite knowing about getting in cars with strangers, and despite her only being my teacher, she wasn’t really a stranger, so I did it anyway.
One of the best things I did was become comfortable having guns in my home and workplace because I know how to use them.
I even have one in my purse right now, in my car.
I should probably have it on me, considering who stands in front of me.
Though I imagine it’s a surprise to anyone who’s seen that side of me. It’s not the ability to aim a gun that’s the problem. I know how that different version of me feels and looks. She’s dangerous, uncontrolled, and has secrets.
“Who taught you?” I ask him quickly, not liking the attention on me.
“My uncle,” he says a little bit quieter than I expect. A cold tension runs between us, and I grow uncomfortable.
“Must be nice.” I force a smile, looking back at my car, ready to leave.
“What?”
“To have a family that gives a shit,” I throw out. Because I know in these kinds of families, it’s survival of the fittest. If someone isn’t teaching you how to use a gun by the time you’re walking, then you’re already behind.
“Yes, you have no one. How is that again?” he asks, and I try not to visibly flinch at his words.
“Something to do with death,” I say. He takes a step closer, and I hate how he presses so tightly into my space, forcing me to take a step back and hit my back against my car.
“You like death, don’t you?” he asks. His husky voice makes me shiver, for all the wrong reasons.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I ask, each word dripping with sarcasm, trying my hardest to ignore the low hum between my legs that’s awakened.
He grabs my jaw.
“I hate it when people roll their eyes at me,” he says, holding my face and not letting it move.
His voice shifts something in me again, provoking the dangerous version of myself that slipped through the cracks tonight.
He calls to me in a way that I wish he didn’t, because that version of me does not fit into this life that I’ve created here.
“And I hate unsolicited touches,” I say through gritted teeth.
To show him just how much I hate being touched, I grab the first thing I come into contact with … his cock. His impressive cock. From feel alone, I know he’s big. And thick.
I squeeze it, but he doesn’t pull back. He just holds my jaw in place while I hold his cock, feeling it grow beneath my touch.
My eyes flare. He’s growing harder with each second. And impressive doesn’t do his size justice. Not that I would tell him that. He already knows he looks good. I feel like compliments on his cock will just escalate that.
We remain in a standstill, neither of us wanting to step away from the challenge first. To an outsider, we probably look crazy.
We probably are. But I did not give him permission to touch me, so I didn’t need permission to give it back.
Granted, his hand is on my face, and my hand is on his cock, but semantics.
“If you keep squeezing my cock, I might just have to fuck your mouth with it.” His grip tightens on my jaw to make his point.
Heat flares in me at the mental image of him forcing me to my knees and filling my mouth with his cock. I hate that it turns me on. And I hate that the smirk that touches his face knows I like what I just heard.
“And I will fucking bite it off,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
His cock twitches in my hand, the only indicator he likes what he hears.
He leans in so his mouth is now closer to my ear, my eyesight now over his shoulder, looking toward the strip club’s back entry. Will someone walk out and see us?
My heart rate picks up as I’m locked into place, yet my body naturally leans toward his, betraying me. Captivated by a monster it has no business crossing pleasure with.
“You could try, but how am I supposed to fuck you with it after if you bite it off?” His hot breath tickles my ear. I have to remember to breathe properly when he’s so close.
I curl my other fingers over his shoulder seductively as I lean up on tippy toes as if letting him in on a secret.
“Being that it’s detached, I can fuck you up your ass with it. How does that sound?”
He pulls back at my words, those harsh eyes, dare I say, seeming more fucking aroused.
However, his hand drops from my face, and he glances down at his cock where my hand still sits, a smirk touching his lips.
I immediately pull it away just as the sound of the back door opens, and I shove him a step back to ensure no one sees us together, doing whatever the fuck we were just doing under some weird magnetic spell.
He adjusts himself and nods, turning and walking toward his men who wait for him. I spot Valen, the only one I know by name, who seems to notice me even in the dark. A few of his other men seem to look in my direction, but Valen barks an order, and they scatter into their cars.
Taking a deep breath, I turn and get into my car, taking a moment for myself as I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
Tonight was a disaster. I slipped out of control, and I’ve drawn the interest of a monster that I’m certain goes beyond him just needing my employment and help.
Besides bringing another body onto my table…
that I just helped him with. He hasn’t inquired further about the body that’s gone missing, or how I’m supposed to help him.
I want this chapter closed, so everything can go back to my regular routine, where I hide in the shadows and cut open bodies. My happy place.
Without looking back, I drive straight to my work, go in, and make sure all the doors are locked before I sit down on the cold, sterile floor and remember to breathe.
What have I gotten myself into?
And why am I liking it…
Fuck.