12. HUNTER
HUNTER
W hat are the fucking chances?
I laugh to myself as I collapse against my couch. And here I thought I was starting to lose my edge.
Gotta admit, it wasn’t great to see the horror on Lyra’s face when she realized I was her neighbor, but that only lasted a second before the pure amusement took over.
This is going to be fun. There’s no escaping me now.
No more leaving me on read and blowing me off, not now that I know exactly where she’ll be.
Sooner or later, she’ll have no choice but to fall for my wicked ways. She won’t be able to resist. Though considering she thought I was stalking her, it might take a minute, but I’m in for the long haul.
Lyra hates me. That much is clear.
She’s got a feisty little chip on her shoulder, and watching that come into play is going to be the best fun I’ve ever had. She’ll bite my head off every chance she gets, and it’s only going to ignite that fire within me.
I’m ready for it. Whatever bullshit she wants to hurl my way, I’m down.
Can’t lie, though, it’s ironic that she assumed I was stalking her. And yeah, I get it. I was standing right outside her door, and after the texts I’ve sent her over the past few days, I get how she came to that conclusion. Any sane woman would. But if she knew what I did for work . . . shit.
Stalking is just part of the job, and I’m damn good at it. Had it come to the point where she was still blowing me off, I would have ended up stalking her anyway, so it’s awfully convenient that I won’t have to go to the effort now.
It’s as though all the fucked-up little stars suddenly aligned, and just like that, my pretty little savage appeared behind me like magic, and if that ain’t a sign, then I don’t know what is. It’s the world’s way of saying that I have to pursue her. There’s no other option.
Lyra Vale will be mine.
Call it divine intervention. For me, at least. I’m sure she’s in her apartment right now calling it something entirely different. Punishment, perhaps.
Making my way into my kitchen, I grab leftover takeout from the fridge and lean against the counter while it reheats, and as I wait, my phone buzzes against my island counter.
Maddox: You won back your girl yet or are you still fumbling? I could give you some pointers if you need.
I snort a laugh before typing back.
Hunter: Thought I was fumbling, but it’s suddenly looking up.
Maddox: And here I thought you had no game. Remember, these girls love persistence.
Hunter: Says the guy who’s never dated a girl for more than three seconds.
Maddox: Don’t be jealous because I know how to close the deal. How are those blue balls?
I shake my head as I grab my food from the microwave and start digging in, but I can’t resist sending one last text.
Hunter: It’s alarming how much thought you have for my balls. Something you need to tell me?
Maddox: Don’t play with me. You’ll lose every fucking day. Need a good fondle? I’m your man. Wanna tea-bag that shit? I’m down. Just say the word and I’ll suck those little blueys right to the back of my throat. What good is a best friend if I don’t have your back when you need it most?
Fuck me. I should have seen that coming.
Don’t get me wrong, Maddox is as straight as they come, but there’s no line he wouldn’t cross to prove a point, and if it truly came down to me demanding that I tea-bag him to test his loyalty, he’d assume the position before the sentence was even out of my mouth.
What can I say, he’s the best friend anybody could need.
Hunter: Thanks, man.
Maddox: Don’t mention it. But just between me and you, you’re thinking about my balls now, aren’t ya? I can send a pic if you need help with the visualization.
Hunter: If a picture of your balls appears on my screen, I’m going to strangle you with them.
Maddox: Feisty. I like that.
Letting out a breath, I shove my phone away, watching it sail across the counter before shoveling food into my mouth and grabbing my laptop. Today’s hit would have more than become breaking news by now, and I quickly pull up the local reports from the past twelve hours.
As expected, the body of Omar Randall was discovered at 2 p.m., by his neighbor, with a clean shot between the eyes. It was an easy target. Address provided. No street surveillance. Building security cameras previously taken out. No evidence. No witnesses.
It was clean, just how I like it.
Still, irritation lingers beneath my skin as I skim through another report discussing the growing panic spreading through Onyx Heights. Three bodies in two weeks. And considering I’d only taken out two of them, it leaves me with questions.
Somebody else is operating in this city. And I don’t like it. Not because I suddenly grew a conscience and care about the victims. But because another killer means more bodies, and more bodies means more cops, and more cops brings nothing but trouble.
And trouble, well that shit right there gets people caught. Or worse.
If I’m right, this other killer is the same one who took out my target last week, meaning there’s already a good chance that he knows who I am and has seen my face. The fact he took my hit without leaving a trace tells me he’s good, and that’s a problem for me.
Letting out a sigh, I close my laptop and drag a hand down my face. At some point, I’m going to have to seriously start looking into this person and figure out how the hell we’re supposed to coexist in the same city. And if coexisting isn’t in the cards, well . . . that’s an easy fix.
A laugh rumbles through my chest at the thought, and just as I go to shovel another bite into my mouth, a muffled grunt filters through my living room.
I turn my head toward my door, trying to follow the sound, another comes, followed by another, and my brows fly up, realizing it’s Lyra. It’s a frustrated sound, like grunts and groans, but then . . . It’s soft and breathy, almost desperate, and I freeze.
Well, well, well. She’s getting off!
My lips twist into a satisfied smirk, and I simply listen, wanting to hear the way she comes. I bet she’s the type who needs toys to do the job. Her fingers wouldn’t be enough. She’s probably lying in her bed, sheets strewn across the room as she rides a dildo and puts her vibrator to work.
God, I can see it so perfectly. Her body would be jolting as she gets closer to the edge, squirming in the sheets as her back arches off the mattress.
Oh, my sweet Lyra, touching herself like that.
Too proud to come and knock on my door and ask me for what she wants.
Gotta admit, I like that fierceness about her.
I like that she stands her ground. That she’s stubborn as all hell.
I should have known better. She’s not going to come to me. I’m going to have to go to her.
I enjoy every second of it, listening as her soft moans begin to turn into grunts, only my enjoyment begins seeping away. Those grunts don’t sound as though she’s having the time of her life. They sound more . . . irritable.
What the fuck is going on?
She keeps going, and suddenly those grunts turn into a frustrated cry before a broken “fuck!” sounds through my apartment.
Is she struggling to come? That couldn’t be right.
The woman I met last week was so confident and outgoing.
She knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it.
She didn’t strike me as the type who couldn’t even get herself off.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The universe really is on my side tonight.
I’m left with no choice. I’m going to have to go over there and put out the fire she started. Besides, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t offer my services to a woman in need?
Another frustrated noise reaches me, followed by what sounds suspiciously like her throwing something hard across the room, and I find myself grinning like a complete asshole.
I can only imagine what she’d say if she knew I could hear her award-winning performance.
Though I suppose this isn’t award-winning after all.
I give her a second, waiting to see if she can somehow pull through the wreckage, but when a whimper sounds, I find myself slowly creeping toward my door.
This is a terrible idea. Possibly lethal.
So why the fuck do I all but throw myself out into the hallway and skip toward her apartment like a fucking school girl?
Standing right outside her door, Lyra’s little sex noises are much clearer, and so is her shattering disappointment. She’s not doing well in there, and judging by the sheer lack of commitment, it sounds as though she’s about to give up.
Poor Savage.
I take her door handle, feeling as though I should be wearing a cape, and slowly twist before grinning. A pretty girl living all alone in a city with killers on the loose should know better than to not lock her door. She’s basically inviting me in.
I slip inside without a sound before shutting the door softly behind me.
Her apartment is dim except for soft light spilling from the partially open bedroom door down the hall, and I start walking, now able to hear the subtle sounds of her mattress beneath her, soft breaths ripping from her chest, and more importantly, the gentle buzz of her useless vibrator.
Reaching her bedroom in only six steps, I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and take her in.
Lyra is spread across dark sheets in an oversized shirt, her hair sprawled across her pillow as she lays back with her eyes closed. There’s a pinch of deep concentration between her brows as she holds her blood-red vibrator between her creamy thighs. She’s breathtaking.
I clear my throat.
Lyra’s eyes spring open, and her entire body jerks as she clocks me in the doorway. “What the fuck?” she screeches, slamming her thighs together as she scrambles to her knees, the oversized shirt covering right to her knees.