Page 26 of Remy

And I’ll be damned but my insides tingle at the carefree sound.

“This is more of an after-hours type of situation.” He smirks. “But I adore your wit. Just like I did the first night we met.”

My stomach picks itself up off the floor, climbs back into its rightful cavity, then proceeds to give birth to a mass of butterflies, their rapidly beating wings conducting a symphony of gastrointestinal stupidity.

You are not still attracted to him, you dumb bitch.

“Which facilities do you require the use of?” I swallow.

He’s previously admitted he comes from money, which makes it clear he’s not in need of a cheap deal on a funeral. That doesn’t leave a lot of desirable alternatives, but a girl can always hope.

“Is the man in the back room still alive? Does he require medical assistance?” It’s such an idiotic question. I’m grasping at straws. “If a sterile workspace is what you’re after I can take him to my preparation room. I have stitching supplies and surgical?—”

“He doesn’t require medical assistance.” Grim encroaches, his legs pressing into mine, his hands falling to the desk on either side of my hips.

I’m caged.

Trapped.

The pity returns to his features, making his eyes gentle and lips plush.

His handsomeness attempts to manipulate me into a false sense of security. I’m sure Ted Bundy relied on the same aesthetics to lure his victims to slaughter.

“I think you know what’s going on.” He reaches out, his arm raising in slow motion and gently swiping at a lock of loose hair that’s fallen from my braid.

My pulse thunders, the heavy thuds pounding in my ears.

I want to shove him away. To scream. To escape.

But I’m caught here, trapped between him and the desk. Between a life-threatening situation and the misplaced optimism that he can somehow explain everything into a neat little package that doesn’t end in my blood being splattered all over the floor.

“I h-have a wild imagination,” I stammer. “The possibilities I’ve come up with aren’t favorable.”

“Think the worst of me, Ollie, and you’ll be on the right track.”

I hold my breath, not wanting to think those things. Refusing to believe this is real.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been here after hours,” he admits.

Bile scalds my throat.

He inclines his head as if sensing my revulsion. “It’s not the most ideal situation.”

My breathing kicks back in, full speed ahead. I fight not to hyperventilate. To remain conscious despite the terror threatening to undo me.

I spread my fingers out behind me, trying to find the heavy crystal vase. “You’re a criminal.”

“Yes,” he admits without pause.

“You want to use the retort.” To cremate a victim. To dispose of evidence. To manipulate someone’s life into nothing but tiny grains of bone where DNA is all but impossible to find.

“That was the plan.”

I swallow and lick my lips again, my parched throat in agony.

His eyes catch the movement, his focus lowering to my mouth.

What the hell is he thinking?

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