Page 46 of Monstrous Urges

Annika, who I’d only met a handful of times before, was now a chestnut brunette as opposed to her usual fiery red. The almost perpetual glare whenever she looked at me hadn’t changed, though.

That day, she was swimming in a modest one-piece bathing suit you’d see on a competitive swimmer. The suit was cut high in the leg, and I remember clearly seeing that little speck of ink, hardly bigger than a coin, on her hip, just peeking out.

Mihajlo invited us to swim ourselves as he took off his shirt, revealing the same tattoo, much bigger, on his shoulder.

“The family crest,” he’d explained when he saw me looking at it.

My father and I declined his invitation to swim, and Annika glared at me from the side of the pool for another few minutes before disappearing into the house.

So, yes, I remember that tattoo. And that’s how I know who “Taylor” or “SecretSlut” or whatever the fuck she wants to call herself really is.

I exhale slowly, my teeth grinding. It’s been years since I touched a cigarette. But it’s moments like this that make me crave one. My fingers twitch, flicking an imaginary lighter as my black thoughts settle on the ghost from the past.

But for once I’m not imagining ways of torturing or dismembering her. I’m not envisioning Annika aka Taylor dead, and my dick isn’t getting hard—mercifully—from imagining her face turning purple as I choke the life from her body.

But it does stiffen when I think about the other night—both nights, actually. The chase through the woods. The rush of adrenaline as I hunted down her scent. The throb in my cock when I grabbed her and took her down to the ground, squirming and writhing against me. Screaming and pleading.

Never once using her safe word.

The same thing happened in her hotel room. Maybe at first I scared the absolute hell out of her by surprising her in the darkness. But then she wanted my roughness. She goaded my monster.

She asked for it.

My jaw grinds as I replay the feel of her skin. The soft wet heat between her thighs. Her moans as she begged for more.

…The fact that my dick is still hard makes for an awkward transition when I try to force myself to remember the ways in which I’d like to destroy her.

Milos turns back to me, lowering his phone from his ear.

“The plane’s ready, Drazen. Where?—”

“Back to New York,” I growl as my lips curl darkly. “I have some loose ends I need to tie up.”

10

TAYLOR

Goddammit.

I groan when I walk out of the 17th Precinct and see a familiar figure leaning against the side of his Aston Martin, with two black SUVs and half a dozen security detail camped out a few yards away.

“Jesus, Gabriel!” I hiss as I march over to him. “Do not tell me?—”

“Taylor—”

“Gabriel, you can’t do shit like this as fucking Gov?—”

“Will you relax?” He holds up his hands. “I’m just your ride, T. No string pulling on my end, I promise.”

It’s shitty of me to be angry with him, to accuse him of using his influence to get them to let me go. It’s not just “letting me go”, either. They’re dropping all charges, even after they showed me unnerving security camera footage and still images of me behind the wheel of a yellow Lamborghini driving down 5th Avenue last night.

Right around the time I was sleeping locked in the secure documents room at the office. At least, when I thought I was. After seeing the video and those pictures, though, it clearly happened again.

Physical involuntary discordance. Aka sleepwalking. Or, last night case, sleep-driving a stolen fucking car.

And yet here I am, walking out a free woman with all charges dropped and the record wiped, as a very annoyed Officer Horton told me when she unlocked my holding cell twenty minutes ago.

I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m freaked out. I desperately need a shower after spending most of the day in that goddamn holding cell. And I still don’t believe that this wasn’t Gabriel pulling strings as the freaking Governor.

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