Butterfly (Metamorphosis #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SHILOH

Why the fuck did I pick somewhere so cold to move?

Oh, yeah… because I nearly got caught dumping a body in the ocean in sunny California.

I guess my punishment for being a messy killer is not being able to feel the tips of my fingers.

That’s really only a problem because I have an art assignment due in a few days and I haven’t even started. I need my fingers. I need my hands to work if I don’t want to fail out of my new college a week into being here.

What I really need is some inspiration. My skin itches for a heat that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the feel of blood spilling like little waterfalls of crimson.

At least here it would dot the snow in sparks of red.

Red on white.

Blood on bone.

I close my eyes and imagine the look of it on canvas, eliciting a shudder that rolls down my slender shoulders and ends at my black boots.

That’s what I need.

It’s probably not a good idea—I’m not an impulsive person. I don’t know the area; I don’t know the easiest way to dispose of a body. The fact that I nearly got caught back in California is the reason I’m here now.

I don’t want to move again, but now that the itch is there, I know I’m not going to be able to ignore it.

I need that sense of calm, that beauty found beneath broken skin.

I need…

My eyes catch on a large body as it slips down an alleyway to my left.

We’re in a pretty populated area, but the alley looks empty.

And yeah, the person was big—probably too big for me to even consider, since I’m only five and a half feet when I’m wearing my tall boots—but it’s almost like they wanted someone to follow them into the shadows.

A person could get hurt there and no one would question it.

I wouldn’t even have to move the body if I was fast. Just a quick cut—a splash of blood on my hands that I could run across the snow. A moment of that heat on my fingers to warm me from the inside out.

Impulsive.

Ridiculous.

Not even useful, because I don’t have containers to carry the blood back to my apartment with me, so most of it would go to waste.

“Where are you going to move to next, Shiloh? Another country?”

I don’t even have a passport.

The knowledge doesn’t stop me from pulling up my hood to hide the mess of black and green curls on my head so I can follow the figure down the alleyway.

I’ll worry about passports and fleeing the country later, I guess. You know, after I’m done making bad decisions.

The guy’s moving quickly, though I’m not sure if it’s because he’s running or because his legs are just so damn long.

I can’t tell what he looks like, much more than the oversized hoodie he has on, pulled up over his head to protect him from the godawful cold that my thin leather jacket really isn’t helping with.

Maybe I’ll take his hoodie before I go. I’m not usually much of a trophy person, other than inspiration and blood… but…

I shiver and frown. I could make an exception for this.

He makes his way around the back of the building, pulling up a board that I didn’t realize was loose like he’s done it a thousand times before. It seems as if he knows this place better than me, and it’s going to work to my benefit.

It’s obvious he wants to be alone, and I need him to be alone if I’m going to have any chance of this working.

I need him to be alone and not paying attention, because right now I’m trying to figure out how to scale the perpetual Mount Everest of kills, and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

I pull out the knife I have tucked into my pocket, holding it half hidden in my sleeve as I silently follow him behind the opening in the loose board.

He’s leaning against the back of an abandoned building and his head is down.

All he is to me is long, lean limbs and a tall, cut figure.

He looks strong. His thighs are perfectly sculpted under the jeans he wears…

and I can already see the lines in my head.

Streaks of crimson. A figure cut in shadows against a brick building. Red on white.

Blood on bone.

And…

He tilts his head up, and I stop in my tracks. Long red lashes fall in half moons against pale cheeks. The soft glow of the moonlight illuminates his features in perfect clarity.

He’s like a statue, like art. A nose that looks like it might have been broken once or twice and full lips that are pulled down in a frown.

He looks… sad. And beautiful. And the fan of his lashes are like blood on the moon.

Red on white.

I make the mistake of letting out a soft exhale in awe. He might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, real or created. No one is supposed to be prettier than my art, but…

Those eyes shoot open, and I’m met with a startled expression that quickly schools into concern. His eyes drop from my face—which I’m sure is confused and overwhelmed—to the knife in my hand, and then he looks behind me like he’s expecting something else.

It doesn’t save me as he turns back to my face when nothing pops out behind me. He starts forward and I stand frozen, my feet stuck to the ground and my heart pounding in my chest.

I’ve never been caught before. Not like this. And I’ve never been held in place without someone holding me down.

I…

I… Oh, absolutely fuck me. He’s looking at me with wide, warm brown eyes as he approaches, and I can’t help but imagine it. Over a foot taller than me… I’d have to climb him to slit his throat. He’d bathe me in blood. It would taste like copper on my tongue, feel like being reborn… remade…

His hood falls down as he leans closer, and I’m lost in a sea of crimson waves and a galaxy of freckles that span across his cheeks, making constellations I’ve never seen before.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with an accent I don’t recognize. His fingers on my arm burn through me with the same heat I was seeking out. Heat from a living person instead of blood and paint and flesh.

It’s… weird. Wrong.

New.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice spilling into a low, soothing rumble like he’s talking to a scared rabbit instead of a predator.

Am I okay? I… no. No, I’m not. I’ve never felt anything this strange ripping through my chest, never had a moment of hesitation. But now? Now all I can do is look up at him and force my face into a mask of terror—fabricated fear. I only know how to do it because I’ve seen it so many times before.

It lets me hold the knife up with trembling fingers as I speak. “I… someone’s following me. Can you help me?”

Fuck. What am I doing?