13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
LYNX
Afog settles over me. It’s thick, toxic, and weighs heavy on my chest.
I ignore it and move on autopilot, dragging the mangled corpses of the two contract killers behind the dumpster in the alley so they’re out of obvious sight.
I’ve been tracking them ever since recognizing one of them, Calvin, at The Devil’s Den when he had his hands on Harlow.
Which means I’m not the only hitman who’s been hired to kill her.
Which begs the question: Who the hell is this girl?
Once the bodies are out of view, I lurk in the dark and pull up the tracker on my phone and locate Harlow, confirming she’s done exactly as I suspected she’d do.
She ran back to her apartment and took off in her Jeep. Which, according to the little red dot, is now traveling down the interstate at a high speed.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I consider my options.
It would be easiest—cleanest—to call Joey and wait here for him to come deal with my mess. Alternatively, I could throw the bodies in the back of my truck and dispose of them myself.
But both of those options take too long. And I need to see her. To make sure she’s safe.
And fuck … if she’s scared.
So, instead, I make a split decision, snatching Harlow’s discarded shoe from the ground before abandoning the bodies in the alley and heading back to my truck.
I navigate my vehicle out of the neighborhood quietly, my bloodstained fingers gripping the wheel tight as I follow the blinking red dot down the interstate.
When it takes an exit and a quick left, I close in on it, only keeping enough distance that she won’t see my headlights tailing her.
She makes a few more turns until veering onto a paved side road littered with potholes.
The only houses down here have been condemned, their siding rotted and falling away, their windows all boarded up and doors spray-painted with graffiti.
Besides a dead raccoon on the side of the road, there’s not a soul in sight.
When the blinking red dot finally stops, I gun it the rest of the way and pull into the parking lot of an abandoned church perched high on a hill in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Something dark and ominous washes over me as I pull around the back of the white-sided building and park beside Harlow’s Jeep.
Cutting the engine, I hop out and make quick work of searching the perimeter of the church for any signs of her. But all the doors are chained up, all the windows nailed shut. There’s no way inside. And she’s nowhere to be seen.
Just as I’m rounding back toward her Jeep, something in the distance catches my eye. I pause and turn to face the sprawling land behind the church, spotting a set of shallow footprints in the damp soil. They’re spaced wide, which means she’s moving quickly.
Head on a swivel, I follow the prints through an old cemetery that stretches from the back of the church to the thick tree line at the edge of the property.
My heart beats wildly in my chest, the adrenaline rush of killing two men still running rampant through my system.
I repurpose it as fuel to catch up to Harlow, halting in my tracks when I spot her in the distance—standing in front of a headstone that looks a little newer than the rest—a flashlight in one hand and something else gripped tight in the other.
Propped against the stone is a shovel.
What are you planning to do, pretty girl?
Just when I think she’s about to grab the shovel and start digging up a body, she slings whatever was in her hand over her head—a necklace of some sort—grabs the shovel, and takes off toward the tree line.
I follow her closely, keeping my footfalls light and sticking to the shadows as she ducks beneath the dark cover of the forest.
We’re only a couple hundred feet in when she stops, her shoulders snapping into a tight line as she searches her surroundings, her flashlight darting from one tree to the next.
When a crow caws from a nearby branch, she glances up, mutters something under her breath that sounds a little like “oh for fuck’s sake,” then heads back in the direction we came from.
Something primal moves through me at a deadly pace, settling deep into my core and warming my blood. Tucking my chin to my chest, I close in on her like a lion hunting an innocent lamb.
She must sense me behind her because she soon quickens her pace. I match it twofold.
Fuck. I can smell her now, her candy-scented perfume blending beautifully with fear.
She glances back, her eyes widening when she spots me trailing her. With the faintest of screams, she drops the shovel and begins running, her arms pumping and labored breathing filling the silence between each pounding step she takes.
But I’m bigger and faster, and within a few strides, she’s within reach.
Just as I’m stretching my arm out to grab her, she sinks her hand inside her sweater and produces a knife. She turns and aims it at me.
I damn near bark out a laugh and effortlessly knock the weapon from her hand and coil an arm around her waist.
Our bodies collide, forcing the wind from her lungs as I throw us to the ground, my hand instinctively flattening to the back of her head and cushioning the blow of her skull to the ground.
She kicks and screams and puts up a surprisingly good fight for such a tiny thing as I wrangle her into submission, straddling her and gripping her wrists in both hands over her head as she glowers up at me.
Puffs of air leave her parted lips, painting the space between our faces white as the flashlight lying somewhere in the dead leaves illuminates her gorgeous features.
There’s not an ounce of fear in her expression. But there’s a whole lot of fury there, and fuck if it doesn’t make me feel some type of way.
But when I swipe my thumb over the scar on the inside of her left wrist, her body stiffens and she falls perfectly still.
“Scream and it’ll be the last thing you do,” I tell her lowly, my voice all gravel as I spew an empty threat at her.
Fuck, she feels so good lying beneath me, her ample tits pressed against my chest and caramel orbs glaring up at me with a spark of defiance lighting behind them.
There’s not a doubt in my mind that she’s plotting my death. Probably something slow and painful.
She exhales a shaky breath and licks her lips. My dick lengthens in my jeans.
I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper, “What are you doing out here, pretty girl?”
Goose bumps scatter across her flesh as she squeezes her thighs between mine, refusing to acknowledge that her body is responding to my touch the same way mine does hers.
“Go fuck yourself,” she sneers.
My laugh is dark and humorless.
The balls on this girl …
“I told you to stay home. That I wasn’t the only monster lurking around the city right now. And you didn’t fucking listen. And look what happened. Now tell me, why are you out here?”
“Why are you here, Lynx? Why haven’t you killed me yet, huh?“ she snaps. “Either do the job you’re here to do, or let me fucking go.”
Neglecting to specify which of those I intend to do, I say, “Whose grave were you visiting, Harlow? Your dead father’s?” Remembering that she was carrying a shovel, I tack on, “Did you plan on doing some digging while you were out here?”
Her tone is bitter when she responds, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“None of your fucking business. Now get the hell off me.”
She struggles against my restraint, blowing out a frustrated breath when I skim my nose up the side of her neck.
“Tell me, pretty girl … Is that fear I smell? Or arousal? Either way, it’s fucking addictive.”
“It’s disgust,” she sneers.
I huff out another laugh and shift my weight, hauling us both to our feet and releasing her wrists.
She struggles against me, but her efforts are futile.
It’s a matter of seconds before I have her folded over her dead father’s headstone, her fingers gripping the rough, moss-coated granite surface, her long dark hair hanging around her face like a veil.
My knuckles graze the smooth flesh of her neck as I sweep it to the side so I can see her eyes. See the flames licking at her irises.
Fucking perfect.
Pressing my body into hers, I whisper tauntingly, “I bet if I slipped my hand down the front of your panties, I’d make a liar out of you.
You’re wet right now, aren’t you?” She releases a string of colorful curse words and I tsk.
“You’re beautiful like this, Harlow. Folded over your dead father’s grave while your pussy weeps for the man sent to kill you. ”
She opens her mouth, likely to tell me to go fuck myself again, but when I wrap a hand around her throat and track her quickening pulse with my thumb, her jaw clicks shut.
“Tell me again that I disgust you. Lie to me. I dare you.”
Her glare intensifies.
“No words? Hmm. Then let’s find out together, shall we?”
She shivers as I slide my free hand down the side of her body. To the hem of her leggings. I slip my fingers into the waistband and watch her reaction carefully as I slowly drag the fabric down, over the curve of her ass. Her panties go next.
As I suspected, they’re frilly and pink.
Ridiculous.
I pause briefly to whisper in her ear, “Tell me to stop, little killer. And I will. Even though it doesn’t feel like it, you’re in control here. When it comes to this, you always will be.”
A disbelieving puff of air leaves her flared nostrils, her fingers bleaching white as she grips the headstone. Eventually, she relaxes her shoulders and arches her back.
I cock a brow at her in question.
She’s not saying yes, but she’s not telling me no either. Normally, I’d require a woman’s enthusiastic consent to touch. But Harlow is different. She believes all men are the same. Disrespectful. Entitled. Vile.
So as much as I have every intention of pushing her out of her comfort zone, I’ll also back away the second she mutters that one little word.
I give her another moment to speak up. Or for me to rein in my urges.
When neither of those things happen, I grit my teeth and glance down, a hiss escaping through my clenched teeth.
Fuck. Me.