Page 24 of In His Veins

Suddenly, he grabs my braid, wrapping it around his hand and using it to pull me up toward him. He kisses me deeply for a moment, before letting me fall back toward the counter. Keeping his grip on my hair, he pulls me up a little only to use the other to bring the shard back to my neck.

The fear morphs into agonizing pleasure as he thrusts harder into me. I can feel the bruises beginning to form, giving a sick thrill of having a physical reminder of this night. I almost wish the blade would lacerate my skin when my pleasure spirals out of my control, making me come so hard, tears stream down my face.

He pumps forcefully a few more times before completely burying himself in me. We stay in that position for a few more moments, and for the second time that night we’re both fighting for breath.

He gingerly pulls out of me as I turn around, keeping my hand concealed. Brushing my hair away from my face, he studies me closely. His palm leaves a wet streak of blood across my cheek, but he doesn’t look away from my eyes. He’s watching me so closely, that he doesn’t see the shard in my palm as I drive it into his abdomen. His eyes go wide before he doubles over and lets go of me. I’m frozen as I watch the blood soak his shirt. I tell myself to run, but my body refuses to move.

He looks up at me and grins like the psycho he is. “Clever girl,” he whispers as he pulls out the shard and drops it to the floor.

I stare at him aghast as he chuckles.

“Go home, Viper. I’ll clean this up. Besides, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”

I don’t hesitate again. I run.

16

THE STALKER

The pretty girl runs out of the store, all the way to her car. She speeds home and I almost pity her. It’s as if she can never be fast enough. I empathize.

When it comes to Callum, you can never escape fast enough.

I can’t fight my curiosity as she sprints into her home. Callum can’t leave this girl alone. Maybe he sees something in her that I don’t. I weave through the trees behind her apartment building. Her blinds are open and her lights are on. She paces between her kitchen and the living room, hands threaded through her hair. I lean against a tree and watch.

17

CALLUM

The department store is trashed. Upturned racks of clothes litter the floor, and the perfume counter is covered in blood. I sigh as I take in the scene, putting pressure onto my stomach. Ordinarily, I’d call the Giovanni brothers to have them help clean this up. That obviously isn’t an option, and leaving this mess for Ava to deal with isn’t an option either.

Thankfully, I’d already surveyed the building. Finding the office across the hall from the break room, I make quick work of the lock and rummage through the large cabinet on the wall for a first aid kit. I find it on the bottom shelf and pull out the antiseptic. Lifting my shirt, I grit my teeth as I pour it onto the wound, dry it, and add butterfly stitches before grabbing a large bandage. It’s a beautiful, jagged thing that will need more attention when I get home, but I have work to do here. Ava’s boss already hates her, and I’m not about to get her fired.

I find disposable gloves in the cabinet and put them on as I sit in front of the monitor. I pull up the recordings of the last hour, wishing I had the time to watch them before erasing the evidence. When management comes in tomorrow morning, they’ll find the entire security system malfunctioned, damaging video files from the entire day.

I kill the cameras as I realize the security system wasn’t set when Ava left. The store manager’s personal belongings are on the desk next to me, which I scavenge for any relevant information. Pinned to the corkboard above her desk is a scrap of paper turned backward. I can make out the swooping indentations of text and carefully remove it.

Four digits are written in blue ink, making me weigh the odds of this number being one of the keyholder’s security codes. I decide to risk it, because even if it doesn’t work, the alarm company might notify the police if the alarm hasn’t been set at a certain time.

Memorizing the code, I run to the main entrance, feeling my wound break free from the butterfly bandages. I put pressure on my abdomen and punch in the code on the panel by the door.

I hold my breath as I press the button labeled, ‘stay.’ The panel lets out a pleasant chime and the screen reads, ‘STAY MODE - ACTIVATED.’ Exhaling with a rush, I send a mental thanks to whichever idiot left their alarm code in such an obvious place.

Starting toward the office, I pause to grab a new hoodie from the men’s department, pushing into the break room to find a shopping cart full of cleaning supplies and a mop bucket. Swapping out my gloves for a fresh pair, I return to the office and scrub every surface I either touched or bled on.

I can’t believe how careless I’ve been. I’ve spread my DNA all over the store. At least the US government deleted most of my existence from every database when I got moved to Special Ops. Regardless, I have hours of cleaning ahead of me.

Tossing my blood-soaked sweatshirt in the trash can, I put on the one stolen from the floor, hoping it will soak up fresh blood while I work. I then replace the bag and wheel the cleaning cart to the perfume counter.

The next hour passes quickly as I mop and disinfect the counter and the floor. I add the broken bottle to my trash bag of bloody bandages and old gloves before spending another hour righting the racks of clothes and arranging them neatly. The home section is in less disarray, but I collect the frying pan she threw at my shoulder. The impact will certainly leave a bruise, but I’m grateful. A few inches to the right and it would have connected with my face.

Piling the remainder of my trash into the bag, I pull my hat down to shield my eyes and pull my hood over my head. A face mask covers my neck, nose, and mouth. I knot the bag and hold it over my shoulder as I disengage the alarm. Imagining the scrap of paper in my mind, I punch in the numbers before hitting the button label, ‘away.’

The panel emits several rapid beeps, then chirps every second. I assume this sound indicates an exit delay and waste no time pushing out of the door. Bending down, I investigate the exterior lock before pulling my tools from my pocket. I relock the door and grab the bag of trash before walking casually to my SUV in the back of the lot, loading the bag into my trunk and slowly driving away. As soon as I’m back on main roads, I increase my speed, anxious to get home and take a look at this wound. My shirt feels damp and, by the time I pull into the driveway and walk through the door, I realize it’s completely soaked in blood.

Sharp pain slices through my abdomen as I stumble from my car. I grab the trash from the trunk and haul it to my back patio, adding it and the sweatshirt I’m wearing to the pile of ash in my makeshift fire pit. I feel light-headed as I hunt for a bottle of kerosene next to the rarely-used outdoor couch and douse the trash with it, fumbling for the small matchbook in my pocket. Striking a match, I inhale the unique wood and chemical scent emanating from the glowing red tip and drop it onto the pit. The flame catches, rapidly engulfing the evidence.

Leaving the fire to consume itself, I stagger inside to find some real first-aid supplies. Years ago, it saw a lot more action. I’ve stitched up Chase several times, and even myself when he was nowhere to be found. Lately, it’s been collecting dust under my bathroom sink. Unzipping my bag and examining the contents, I wash my hands and torso with antibacterial soap, avoiding the wound. After patting it dry, I clean the same area with an alcohol solution.

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