Page 4 of Fear Me, Love Me

I glare right back. Don’t blameme. I didn’t do this.

The rule that these boys have broken?

I’m only allowed to bleed for him.

The ruler of this town. Not the mayor. Not the chief of police. Not the rich old men who live up on Wysteria Avenue. The man who runs this city from the shadows. Everyone knows it, but no one’s brave enough to say it out loud.

He lifts my wrist and licks slowly up my forearm, looking me dead in the eye. Blood collects on his tongue and he sweeps it across his teeth.

He smiles at me. A red, infernal smile.

Tyrant Mercer.

Last year, he stole my baby brother to force Dad to pay for his drinking and gambling. I couldn’t let Barlow suffer for Dad’s mistakes, so I went after Tyrant and Barlow and stole my brother back. Tyrant never got his money, and now I’m in his debt. I don’t have any money, so Tyrant’s decided he gets to play with me anytime he chooses.

I try to pull my wrist out of his grip, but Tyrant’s holding me too tightly. He cups the back of my neck, drawing me toward him, his bloodstained mouth seeking mine. The rich scent of blackcurrants and cedars in wintertime clings to his clothes. I resist him and nearly overbalance, but just in time, I prevent myself from crashing into his chest. My free hand ends up clutching my skirt.

A wicked smile spreads over Tyrant’s mouth, revealing his bloodstained teeth. “Afraid to touch me, angel?”

Of course I am. Touching this man is dangerously addictive. More addictive than knives. Tyrant looks like a work of art or a photographer’s dream. He has a brutal face that’s been carved from the finest marble, and a tall, broad, muscular body that’s predatory in its beauty. Then there’s the fact that the man knows how to dress. Tyrant doesn’t wear clothes. He brings them to life. The suit jacket encasing his muscular shoulders looks like it formed instantaneously around his body from Italian wool and miracles.

And hisskin. I used to think there was nothing in the world more wondrous to the touch than buttery satin, fine silk chiffon, and thick velvet that’s been woven from the night sky. Now I know that nothing compares to Tyrant’s warm, touchable skin, adorned with intricate tattoos that cover his body, his hands, creep up his throat, and even decorate his cheekbones and above his brows.

His smile widens and my gaze fastens on it. That mouth of his can caress and punish with kisses. His lips and tongue can drag secrets from my body and make it do things I never knew were possible. I wonder sometimes if I made Tyrant up out of scraps of fabric, desperation, and fever dreams.

Or fever nightmares, because this man is my ruin.

Tyrant keeps a tight hold of my wrist and turns to the boys. In a cold, menacing voice he asks, “Who cut her?”

We all look at the knife that Black Sweater’s holding. Even he seems stunned to see it in his hand, and he hides it behind his back. Terror is making the whites show all the way around his eyes. He brings the knife out again and opens and closes his mouth. “Um…”

“Give it to me,” Tyrant orders.

The boy instantly obeys, dropping the knife into Tyrant’s hand and wiping his own on the seat of his pants. He’s scrambling for a way to save his life. Make some excuse. He didn’t in his wildest dreams expect Tyrant Mercer to materialize in this graveyard when he was bullying an unprotected girl.

Tyrant examines drops of my blood on the blade. “That doesn’t belong to you,” he tells the boy, then turns to look at me as he licks the blood off the blade. “This is mine, isn’t it, angel?”

It’s not fair that he looks so delicious with my blood coating his teeth. I never agreed that he owns my blood, but Tyrant has decided he does, and that’s all that matters to him.

“But you can have this back.” Tyrant flips the knife in his hand so he’s holding the tip, raises it over his shoulder, and throws. The knife flips through the air in a blur of flashing metal and buries itself in Black Sweater’s throat. The boy’s eyes grow impossibly wide. He scrabbles at his throat and then yanks the blade out.

Big mistake. Blood gouts down his sweater. He makes a gurgling sound, and more blood bubbles up his throat and pours over his lips. A moment later, he crumples to the ground and lies there motionless.

I should probably cover my face and scream, but instead, I’m staring down at the dead boy in surprise and interest. All that blood is such a fascinating sight.

His friends cry out in shock. Blue T-shirt grabs White T-shirt and pulls him like he’s about to break into a run. Both of them are having normal reactions to a suddenly dead boy.

Tyrant pulls a gun out of his suit jacket and points it at them. “If you take one more step, after I kill you both, I will murder your families.”

The boys stay where they are, whimpering and staring in horror at their dead friend.

Satisfied, Tyrant turns back to me and drags me even closer to his muscular body by my bloody wrist. An evil smirk spreads over his lips, and he murmurs, “It’s been too long, Vivienne. How’s my favorite girl in Henson?”

My blood is leaking between his fingers and running over his wrist. I take an unsteady breath and say, as forcefully as I can manage, “Let go of me, Tyrant.”

Tyrant’s smile turns cold and his eyes flash, warning me to be nice to the man who saved me. In the same purring tone, he says, “But, angel, I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to touch you.” I try to yank my wrist from him but his grip on me is like iron.

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