Chapter 3
For what feels like hours, the police question us.
Did you see anything?
Did you hear anything?
Was anyone acting suspicious?
When did you get to the bar? Did you see this man tonight?
No, no, no, hours ago, and no.
I saw nothing, heard nothing.
I was in the bar all night, as soon as I got off work.
Answering questions and hearing others answer the same ones, all of us confirming that we all saw each other in the bar for most of the night.
Even though they're sure it's a mugging, they have to do their due diligence before any of us can be permitted to leave.
And all the while, I keep feeling his eyes on me.
The dark-eyed stranger.
I tried not to notice him when I walked in, assuming a man that handsome was there with someone, but once he tried to frighten off my useful idiot, I could feel where he was the rest of the night. I could tell each time he looked at me, my eyes returning to him whether I wanted to or not.
There was something about him, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
He wasn't particularly tall, nor incredibly muscular.
He wasn't dressed ostentatiously or drab.
His hair was black and wavy, but not so wild as to draw attention, or so tamed that it seemed overdone.
He had one errant curl that hung over his forehead, and it looked so soft that I wanted to twirl it around my finger from the moment I saw him, but no one else seemed to even see him.
Everything about him had screamed that he wanted to be invisible and go unnoticed, yet I couldn't avert my gaze for long.
He moved like water, smooth and graceful, flowing across the ground like every pothole and broken concrete edge weren't there at all.
Even now, I swear I can feel the earth bending to his will, as if it moves for him. As he walks towards me and I pointedly look away, I sense him getting closer.
When the other man had been gracelessly pursuing me earlier, I was only one step down from being disgusted. His large frame had invaded mine without my permission, making his intention and lack of consideration clear, even if his words hadn't done the same.
He might have been my next target if my suspicions about him were correct.
But then we were interrupted by the very man I've been unable to shake since then, both in reality and in the dark corners of my desirous mind.
Earlier, when he rudely interrupted my conversation with the giant asshole at the bar, when I turned to tell him to mind his fucking business, I was temporarily rendered speechless.
He was so handsome, yet no one around us seemed to notice.
None of the professionals that usually lingered here tried to entice him— none of the newly 21-year-old girls looking for someone to buy them cheap drinks either.
His beauty was somehow mine, and mine only to notice.
And notice I did.
His eyes were dark, though the exact color was impossible to tell in the dim light; his black tee and dark jeans molded to fit every inch of his build.
A tattoo peeked out of the top of his neckline and another from the sleeve on his left arm, leaving me desperate to discover if they were two separate pieces or one mural across his chest and shoulder.
He hadn't smiled, but his smirk when he thought he was being helpful had formed a dimple in his pale cheek, his lips fuller than any man had the right to have, leaving me wondering what they'd feel like drifting across my skin as he— oh, my god, no. Stop it.
No matter how hard I tried, there was no denying he was a work of art.
One I could indulge. Once. And based on how many times I've caught his gaze raking over me, the feeling is mutual.
Even the tiny bit of his cologne I got was enough to stop my plan in its tracks for a moment. He smelled of cinnamon, sin, and something woody to smooth it out.
But then he had to go and ruin it.
The wink and lip zipping could have looked to anyone else that he was telling me to keep quiet. That he was the killer, and he wanted me to know it. His miming that at all was a risk. A taunt, too. He knew the truth.
Somehow.
And as long as he did, he was either A. off-limits or B. a target.
Now that he came close to me again, leaning against the bar wall in the alley as he slowly looked me over, that scent hit me with full force.
Like the scent of a wild fuck in a forest cabin, followed by a cup of spiced toddy.
I tried to keep my wits, remember that he's already made himself an enemy by revealing he knows that I killed that man.
But he deserved it. Our elected officials and police have made it perfectly clear they have no intention of doing what needs to be done.
So I will.
With obvious—if feigned— annoyance, my eyes meet the strangers now.
"You know, they say you're not supposed to return to the scene of your crime," he smiles, that dimple popping out again. His head tilts as he looks into my eyes, daring me to... to what? To respond? To deny the accusation?
"Do they?" I ask, playing dumb— my favorite character.
Mischief lights up his face, "They do. Though I suppose in your case, it would have been more suspicious not to, what with everyone gathering and being very cooperative with the authorities."
I make a noncommittal humming sound, wondering why I'm still humoring this man. He's accusing me of murder and barely refraining from eye-fucking me as he does.
"I'm Marcos," he tells me, his glance lazily shooting back to the caution tape before returning to my face. "What name do I need to be waiting to hear on the news so I can come bail you out?"
Heat fills my cheeks. Whether by his forwardness or his assurance that I'm going to be caught, I'm not sure.
I don't know that I want to give this strange man my name. Why hasn't he told the police he suspects me? Why does he suspect me?
"Nat," I finally settle on. I won't give him my whole name, but it certainly won't be hard to guess what it's short for. "You're quite brave to be accusing someone of murder. What makes you think you won't be next?"
A wicked laugh rumbles from his chest, his right arm landing on his heart as he releases the sound.
"You are more than welcome to try," he finally says. "I am harder to kill than most men."
"So someone has tried, then? Pity they didn't succeed."
The insult doesn't offend him in the slightest. In fact, I think he takes great pleasure in it.
"Many someones, actually," he steps forward slightly, close enough that I could reach for him, far enough that it doesn't feel invasive. "But don't you worry, pet, I am quite durable."
The more he speaks, the more I, unfortunately, become intrigued.
He has an unplacable accent. One that speaks of both finer things and untold nightmares.
A slight roll of his tongue with the R's, his mouth shaping every word with intention and purpose, as if he's been speaking them for centuries, not years.
As if he's the antagonist of a historical horror film with a haunting and taunting villain.
And he called me pet.
Something I'm definitely not going to have a reaction to.
A small smile creeps onto my face anyway, begrudgingly enjoying this interaction, "Or your opponents were completely inept."
"As was yours," he gestures toward the caution-taped alleyway across the street with his chin.
He was. Most men like him, the ones who only prey on women who they've drugged or were otherwise incapacitated, are entirely out of their depth when someone fights back.
"Your first?" he continues, leading the conversation.
That's a question I won't be answering. While this is mildly entertaining, I'm going to incriminate myself if this guy is playing me.
Instead, I sweetly smile and bat my eyes at him. Flirtatious but taunting. And he knows it for the game that it is.
Positioning himself in front of me with one hand on the wall beside my head, he reaches with his other, his frigid fingers smoothing hair behind my ear before leaning in to speak low enough that I feel the words against my ear as much as I hear them, "You have blood on your neck, pet.
" His finger drifts further down, ghosting along my collarbone. "Just there."
Fuck.
Not only am I furious that I missed a spot before entering the bar, but his proximity is doing silly things to my head. And my nipples. There's no denying my body reacts to his, but that doesn't mean I'm in a position to be entertaining him.
I watch him from the corner of my vision, motionless as he leans back, searching my face hungrily, his gaze flitting across my lips before landing on my eyes again.
"You're going to get caught, you know," he taunts, and for the first time, I actually think I might dislike him.
"Excuse me?"
"I mean no offense," he assures me, his gaze locked on the blood on my décolletage before going lower. "A slit throat is messy. I can only imagine how bloody the rest of your body is."
I might be imagining it, but I swear he sounds excited by the idea that I'm coated in blood. The heat in his eyes could be just for the parts of my body he's looking at, but something tells me he's as fucked up as I am, craving the darkness as much as I do.
"And if I am coated in someone's blood?"
His eyes dart back to mine, "I am knowledgeable on many things, including disposing of bloody garments. Let me help you."
Underneath the heat, there appears to be genuine concern. He's toying with me, but Marcos actually wants me to get away with this.
My eyes narrow, "Why? Why help me?"
"Did he deserve it?" he asks me sincerely.
With a swallow, I nod. He did. And nobody else was going to do what needed to be done.
"And your other victims?" Victim, but... semantics. "Did they deserve their ends, too?"
I nod again.
"A doe-eyed vigilante," he grins at me, making me blush. "You need a side-kick."
I nearly burst into laughter, only reining it in because I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
"There's—" I stutter and barely conceal my giggling, "There's something wrong with you."
He chuckles, the sound warm and sinful, as he leans in, speaking against my ear, his breath coasting against my skin, "You have no idea."
I can't entertain this. What is he even suggesting? He wants to help me, but clearly, he also wants to get me naked. And he likes that I've killed these men. That alone should send me running, but I—
All thoughts fade as his lips touch my neck, the soft press pulling a sigh from my lips.
He's being incredibly brazen with his desire, something I'm used to, but this is different somehow. I know instinctively that I wouldn't even need to tell him no; he would be able to read every signal, any slight hesitation, and pull back without me having to ask him to.
I may not be saying the words Yes, please fuck me, terrifying man, but my body is screaming them, waiting for my mind to catch up.
Gently, he sucks on the skin just beneath my ear, the soft drag of his tongue against the skin sending sharp spikes between my legs. A few soft kisses and taunting words, and my body is throbbing for him, against all my better judgment.
And he damn well knows it.