Page 39 of Black Heart

His free hand trails down my arm. “Everything you’ve been too afraid to ask for.”

Without warning, he releases me, leaving a throbbing pain in his wake, and retreats into the shadows of the room. I watch through tendrils of my hair as he disappears from sight, wondering what he’s up to now.

I try wriggling against the restraints again, but they hold fast. There’s little else to do, so I keep trying, testing, kicking and picking at the chair so maybe I can grab a piece of wood for a weapon.

Time passes slowly. The moon’s gleam through the small window tells me it’s still night, but I don’t know when the Scythe will return, or what for. Mumbling curses at him, I fight against the chair, my wrists becoming slick with blood and my palms throbbing with small splinters, none of them weaponized.

The alcohol has faded and left a nasty headache behind. I’m really thirsty, and I need to use the restroom.

Sighing, I let my head fall back, my rapid pulse more obvious in the stretched skin of my neck.

I’m starting to panic.

The Scythe hasn’t hurt me before—in fact, he brought me to orgasm instead. But this feels very different.

I’m teetering on the edge of a meltdown when anunexpected sound breaks through the quiet. My body goes rigid and my heart leaps into my throat, expecting the Scythe to emerge from one of the many gloomy corners. Instead, a sleek black cat pads into view, its green eyes reflecting faintly in the light.

Paws land silently on the cold concrete floor as it approaches, whiskers twitching with curiosity and a motorboat operating in its stomach.

“Nice kitty,” I croon. “Your stealth matches your owner.”

The cat tilts its head at me before resuming its purr-fest. The oddly soothing noise does nothing to ease my predicament. If anything, it seems to emphasize just how hopelessly trapped I am.

With a graceful leap, it lands on my lap. But as it kneads my legs, then curls up and gets cozy, its glowing green eyes meet mine again.

“Are you spying on me for him?” I ask my fellow inmate.

“Reaper,” a voice orders out of nowhere, causing me to flinch.

The cat is unfazed, merely tilting its head toward the source of the sound. I watch in confusion as the Scythe steps into the rays of moonlight, looking more human than I’ve ever seen him.

His mask is gone, his chest bare, allowing the soft light to play over his ruggedly handsome body that would’ve been considered beautiful if not for the striking display of tattoos and scars covering him, each one telling a story as complex as the man himself.

The Scythe advances slowly, his posture relaxed as he reaches out to rub the cat’s sleek black fur, then picks Reaper up, cradling the cat against his chest. I’m taken aback by his gentleness, struggling to reconcile this image with the cold and ruthless man who’s tied me to this chair.

His shirt is off. His. Shirt. Is. Off,I needlessly repeat to myself.

And I can’t help but ogle.

I’ve never seen anyone look so deadly and so achingly gorgeous all at once.

He’s not bulked up like a bodybuilder, but honed, every inch of him chiseled with potent strength.

A tattoo sleeve on his left arm seems to depict a tragedy. It’s a blend of intricate patterns and symbolisms interwoven with images of death and rebirth. Eerie and beautiful. His jet-black hair is tousled, making him seem less like a terrifying figure of the underworld and more ... well, more like a man.

But it’s his face that captures most of my attention.

The most striking of all is the scar snaking from his jaw to under his eyebrow, the silvery threads giving him an intense, intimidating allure. It’s a painfully familiar mark—a mirror image to the one I saw on my savior the night I was almost run down.

My body tenses as this visual confirmation threatens to drown me like a tidal wave.

“It really is you,” I whisper.

His pale-blue eyes stare at me with a force that freezes my lungs, until I remind myself to take a breath.

“I’m getting tired,” I say. “And now I’m bleeding, if you’re here for a status update on your captive.”

No response.

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