Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“I needed to ask him. I had to know if it was true.”
“And?” he asks, those dark eyes boring into me. Absorbing every word, every action.
“He wasn’t interested in sharing the truth.”
“Did he touch you?”
Bringing my hands to his face, I smooth out the frown line marring his forehead, and I say, “No. He thought I’d still go through with the wedding.” I blink, rapidly willing the tears not to fall. I’ve cried an ocean lately, and yet the waves keep coming.
A deadly growl rumbles from his chest.
“I made my choice,” I choke out. “It’s you.” I grip his cut, my hands trembling, then turn my head toward the brothers waiting on their leader. “It’s them.” Swiveling my gaze back to him, I smile. “It’s us. I choose us.”
He crashes his lips to mine, claiming me, owning me, devouring me. His body speaks to me, whispering the promise of what’s to come. Pulling away too soon, he murmurs, “Let’s go home. I have something for you.”
Relief fills me as we pull up to the gates of the King’s compound.
I’m home.
Callan doesn’t park where he usually does. Instead, he drives to the far end of the lot, around the main structure. Only a couple bikes follow. My nerves jump around inside me like fleas under the skin.
Callan comes to a stop at a separate building detached from the rest, then helps me off, taking my helmet and placing it on the bike. “What’s going on?” I ask, cautious.
“You know I went on a run for a few days.” I jerk my head in confirmation. “Well, it wasn’t a club run. It was to hunt a lead.” Taking my hand in his, he coaxes me to follow him inside with Monster and Dodger, the only two who followed us, bringing up the rear. Apprehension spikes my blood. My muscles clinch.
“Callan, what’s going on, what lead?”
We move through a loading bay into another part of the building before coming to a door. Halting his movements, Callan cups my neck, stroking his thumbs over my cheeks. “If at any time you can’t do this, just tell me and I’ll take you back to the club, okay?”
“You’re scaring me.” My heart is in a vice grip. A cold sweat dampens my skin.
“Don’t ever be scared when you’re with me. I’ll always keep you safe. On my fucking life.” He presses his lips to mine, pouring all his emotions into me. “We got intel on a serial killer who meets his victims as blind dates, strangles them, and takes trophies.”
Thud.
My mind swims, static white noise whooshing through my ears.
“We tracked him to Oklahoma. He moves from state to state, avoiding capture.”
Sickness twists my stomach. My bones turn to ash. I struggle to remain standing, my gaze pinging between the three of them. “The FBI believe they can link him to six confirmed kills, but he could be responsible for as many as twenty-eight—all women under twenty-two.” Dodger sneers.
Dread engulfs me, staining all my memories of Harley. A serial killer? I imagine her fear, fighting for her life. The marks he left on her body, the pain she must have endured. Would she have known she was going to die?
Clammy hands clutching Callan and teeth bared, I ask, “Is she one of those twenty-eight?”
“They don’t know for sure. It might not be him.” Monster intervenes.
“But it might.” I swallow, my breath quickening.
“Let’s find out.” Callan opens the door and steps inside. I follow him on trembling legs. My hand flies to my mouth, smothering the scream I want to release as Callan says, “Meet the Blind Date Killer, Edward Jarvis.”
CHAPTER 7
LOVE
A naked man, bar a pair of black-rimmed glasses, is tied to a table. His body is athletically built. His muscles strain against the metal restraints keeping him contained. My legs move of their own accord, until I’m close enough to see small white scars decorating his arms and hands. Nail marks. A vice constricts my heart.
“Help me,” the man cries out, jerking his chains. The clink of the metal makes me startle. “I’m not who they think I am,” he pleads. Bruises color his cheeks. Crimson stains sit beneath his nose. I sense Callan’s presence behind me as I walk around the table, inspecting every inch of the man. Did he wrap those hands around Harley’s throat? Did he push his weight down on her as she struggled to be free? She was a fighter. She wouldn’t have gone quietly. Are those scars up his arms from her fighting him? Closing my eyes, I squeeze my hands so tight, I feel my own nails puncture the skin.
“Please,” the killer tries again.
My eyes spring open, glaring down at him. “You’ll never leave here.”
He begins to laugh, chilling the room, turning the atmosphere into a chamber reserved for hell. Evil, pure and undiluted, is among us. We’re all killers, but he has no soul. Empathy eludes the minds of psychopaths—and that makes them demons walking the earth. He smirks, inhaling like he can smell the humanity surrounding him.