Page 13 of Killing Emma

“I’m gonna head out. I don’t wanna stay out here in BFE when there’s a party going on at The Den.”

“Yeah, have fun with that,” I quip, thinking of the strip club he frequents. It’s exclusive and VIP only, but it’s still seedy—and Ivan will be there. “I need to stay here.”

“Enjoy her.” My partner pats my shoulder. “But save some for me.”

My fists clench at my sides. I never share anything with anyone. Not even my partner, but…Am I growing too attached to Emma? Or is it the innate need I have to transfix on my target until they’re dead? Because once the light in her eyes is gone, there are no more secrets. No more fun. Just another successful job done and on to the next.

My hand relaxes and I grab a second bottle of water. I set it on the table, crack open mine, and down the contents. I don’t want her to see my face. It’s too fucking personal. I’ve never shown my face to a victim, just like I’ve never shown the monster inside of me to anyone without it.

I put my mask back on, toss my water into the trash, and grab the unopened bottle. The last hostage—and first—was a high-end jewelry retailer. I kept him for seven days while his wife paid up a big ransom amount, and then I dropped him off in downtown LA in the middle of the night.

Oh, and then I shot him down by Skid Row. The police went round and round, and watching it play out was like watching a movie. That’s what it’s like to be untouchable—well, mostly untouchable. No one is ever truly untouchable, but we have a lot of connections.

I make my way through the walk-in pantry. On the far back wall is the door to the basement. However, to the naked eye, you wouldn’t know it. It’s shelved like all the rest. I set it up that way when I built this place. I don’t spend all my time here, having a beachside mansion not far from Henry’s place on the coast, but this is where I go when I’m either on the list to die, or just don’t want to deal with anyone.

Punching in the code, I creak the door open, staring down into the dimly lit stairwell. The water bottle sweats in my hand, and apprehension pulls at my gut—and my cock. Yet again, I’m fucking annoyed. Maybe it’s not Manny. Maybe it’s just me.

My gaze lands on Emma, my eyes able to freely rake down her body without her knowing that I’m drinking every inch of her in. Her head hangs, her wild hair covering her face. She once again appears like the broken, miserable Emma—the one I thought would just lay down and die. She doesn’t look up as I step toward her.

Is she sleeping? Or did she die?

I really don’t trust myself with chloroform, and no one should. The shit either does nothing, or damn near kills whoever breathes it in—or leaves them with so many medical issues they might as well be dead.

It would be easier if she was dead…

I almost feel relieved at the thought.

Emma lets out a sigh that startles me and I straighten up. I approach her, taking in her rumpled T-shirt and shoulders pinned back at what must be a painful angle. I consider just letting her loose. She can’t get out of here, and then she would be able to change positions…

“Why are you just standing there?” Emma’s voice cuts through the air, groggy and fatigued.

I raise my brows, letting out a sharp breath, but I don’t give her an answer. She’s trying to get under my skin, and while I might have some inner shitstorm going on, Emma won’t get what she wants out of me.

I close the distance between us and pop the seal on the water bottle. She whips her head up, her eyes red and puffy. She blinks her eyes up at me, and parts her lips, like she might say something. But she doesn’t, her eyes dropping to the water in my hands.

“Here,” I mutter, removing the lid and holding it out to her. “Open up.”

“Can’t you just let me drink my own fucking water?” Emma sneers, her blue eyes laced with an iciness that causes me to smile beneath the mask.

“I could,” I say wryly. “But you could also open your mouth like a good girl.”

“No thanks. Not for you.”

I laugh. “Oh? Then who would you do it for, Little Red? Jared? Would you let him tie you up and take—”

“Shut up,” she cuts me off, a new sharpness to her tone. Once again, she proves her weak spot is her estranged, clingy husband, but I don’t think that’s the whole story.

“I guess I could not give you water.” I shrug, turning to go, but then change my mind. Instead, I grab another chair from the small table in the corner and set it directly in front of Emma.

She eyes me with weary caution as I take a seat, sitting so close to her that her bare knees brush the fabric of my jeans. She shivers—or maybe it’s more of a shudder—but I still smile at the reaction.

“You just going to sit there and stare at me?” Emma cocks her head, her mascara streaked beneath her wild eyes and full lips in a flat line.

“Depends.”

She narrows her gaze. “On what?”

“On whether or not you’ll open your mouth for me.”

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