Page 56 of Black Heart

“This is a mere sliver of what I want to do to you. I’m goingto take you apart, piece by agonizing piece, until there’s nothing left but what I’ve given you.”

I can’t think, can’t speak. The room spins and I can still feel his heat against my skin.

Just when I’m about to beg him for my release, a sudden creak sounds from downstairs. Kaden’s head whips toward the closed door.

His face shows no emotion when he does it, but I can read the subtext.

Intruders.

“Fuck,” he says.

17

KADEN

“Fuck.”

The word rushes from my lips, sharp as a blade slicing through hot air.

Layla’s bare skin shimmers beneath me every time lightning flashes, her fingers digging into herself, opening her pussy with pleading eyes.

I press my hand over her mouth, my fingers spanning half her face, and I relish the soft gasp she emits against my palm.

Layla’s wide eyes stare into mine, shining with quiet hesitancy.

I use my other hand to skim my fingers over the length of bare skin stretched taut across her hip bone, tracing a soundless promise—I’ll protect you—before I pad silently to the door.

The faint noise downstairs has amplified into an unmistakable shuffling. Not loud enough to be a breach, but too obvious to ignore. It’s the sound of uncertainty tiptoeing through the seams of the old cottage, and my gut tells me it’s human, not a lost fox from the woods.

I’m always ready for death—my own or someone else’s.The Reaper is an old friend, after all. But Layla, she’s still a stranger to his grasp.

Crouched into obscurity by the door, I extract a pair of sleek Glocks from the jacket I discarded. Their cold, metallic weight is a familiar comfort. Though it doesn’t come close to Layla’s warm skin, she’s a luxury afforded to men not hunted by the monsters of their past.

Silently, I beckon Layla closer. She’s so out of sorts, she tiptoes over without bothering to cover her bottom half. Once she’s kneeling beside me, I press one weapon into her palm.

“Stay here,” I order, “and shoot anyone who isn’t me.”

Her brows furrow and her throat bobs, but she nods, clutching the weapon like hope itself. I’d wager she’s never handled a gun before, yet there’s a delicious irony in arming an angel.

“How do I…?”

Her voice shakes but carries a soft acceptance of the inevitable.

“Keep your finger off the trigger until you intend to shoot. Aim low, center mass.”

The paleness to her face intensifies, but she nods again, gripping the Glock tighter.

I rise to slip out of the bedroom, but Layla hooks my elbow.

“Are you going to be okay?” she whispers.

I smile before my mask comes down. “The idiot doesn’t know it yet, but he’s not breaking in—he’s locking himself in here with me.”

I brush my fingers against her cheek once, a silent guarantee that I’ll return. “Secure the door after I leave.”

Then I’m creeping down the stairs, nimble and silent as a cat. This intruder thinks darkness is his ally. I was born in it, molded by it. The fool is walking into my playground.

As I descend, each step below creaks slightly beneath myweight, but I time it with the storm outside, using the crashes of thunder and buffeting wind to my advantage. Leaves are whipped off trees, and rain peppers the glass windows.

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