Page 48 of Obsession

“Damn,” I muttered from the doorway, my eyes tracing the contours of his broad back, the way his muscles bunched and flexed under the strain of his task. Watching him, this beast of a man who could snap necks as easily as twigs, fuss over dowels and screws -- it was a mind-fuck of epic proportions. And sexy as hell.

Riot didn’t turn, but the air thrummed with his awareness of me. His hands, those weapons that had stained the earth red, now cradled the bars of the crib like they were made of glass instead of seasoned oak. The dissonance of it all -- his monstrous reputation versus this moment of almost sacred concentration -- sent a shiver down my spine.

“Always figured you’d build a gallows before a bed for a baby,” I said, not sure whether the tightness in my chest was fear or something far more dangerous.

He grunted, the sound low and guttural. “Not an ordinary child,” he said, without looking up. “It’s mine.”

Awe knotted with apprehension in my belly as I watched him, The Butcher, who could command the shadows and monsters of Raven’s Vale, pouring his soul into a symbol of life amidst so much death. It was a contradiction that should’ve been impossible, yet there it was, unfolding before my eyes. In the last several months, I’d seen more and more glimpses of the man he might have been if not for his thirst for the kill.

“Careful, Riot,” I whispered, half to myself, “you’re showing your humanity.”

His chuckle was dark, devoid of humor. “Nothing human about what I am, Hollis.”

And he was right. Nothing human indeed. There was a chance any emotion I saw from him was merely him mimicking what he’d witnessed others do. Still, it was probably as close as he’d ever get, and I’d take what I could.

The echo of boots on hardwood floors pulled my gaze from Riot’s tempting body. Kane was strutting toward me, a grin splitting his face that didn’t quite reach the coldness in his eyes -- a predator playing at domestic bliss. In his hands he clutched a werewolf plushie, its fake fur matted and one eye hanging by a thread. Where the hell had he found that thing?

“Got something for the little terror,” he said, thrusting the stuffed creature into my arms like it was some twisted offering.

“Figured it’d fit right in with the family.”

The toy was grotesque, a caricature of the very beasts of nightmares. I couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh -- this was what passed for a nursery gift in Raven’s Vale. A fucking werewolf.

“Kane,” I started, the words catching in my throat, “this is…”

“Perfect, isn’t it?” His smirk widened, all teeth and no warmth.

I shook my head, not in disagreement but in disbelief. There was no escaping this place, no shielding a child from the savagery that seeped into every brick and bone of Raven’s Vale. We were hemmed in by violence, born of it, and now, my child would grow up here amongst the three worst murderers within hundreds of miles.

“Thanks,” I muttered. The plushie felt heavy in my hands, a symbol of resigned acceptance to the blood-soaked life that awaited us all.

“Every kiddo needs a beastie to cuddle,” Kane said, oblivious or indifferent to the tremor in my voice.

“Especially here,” Crash said, joining us.

“Especially here,” I echoed, my heart leaden, knowing full well the kind of cuddling that went on under Riot’s rule -- claws and fangs, screams echoing into the night. There was no sanctuary, only survival. And even that came with a steep price.

I turned the plushie over in my hands, its matted fur rough against my skin. I tried to remind myself it was the thought that counted, and Kane was trying. At least, I thought he was.

“A beastie for my baby,” I murmured, trying to swallow the bitterness that threatened to spill from my lips. Kane watched me, his face split with that same self-satisfied grin that made my stomach churn.

“Damn right. Have to let them know from the start that Raven’s Vale isn’t some kind of fairy-tale land.”

I nodded. The thing was hideous, but it was a gesture, something like kindness twisted into the shape of this town.

“I appreciate it, Kane,” I said, forcing gratitude into my voice.

“Anytime, Hollis.” He slapped my back, the sound echoing too loudly in the empty space around us.

The slap was still ringing in my ears when I heard the click of the last piece slotting into place. I heard footsteps walking off and knew I was alone with Riot again.

He stood up from where he’d been hunched over the crib, his large frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light. His hands -- those hands that had torn men apart without a second thought -- had assembled a sanctuary for the child that grew within me.

“Looks sturdy,” I commented, the werewolf plushie now forgotten in my grip.

“Of course it is,” Riot said, his voice low. “Everything I build, I build to last.”

Why did I get the feeling he didn’t mean the crib?

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