Page 9 of Devotion

My camera shutter clicks, and I cringe a bit at the monicker. While I can appreciate the nod toward the spider, did they miss the memo mentioning that a widowmaker is technically a term for a deadly heart attack?

Good job, guys.

Way to use your heads.

I snap another pic. This time, I’ve captured an image of the glass of wine and open book on the coffee table. We have another Caucasian male. Like the four previous victims, his throat’s been cut. After death, his shirt was torn open, giving his attacker access to his torso, our killer’s canvas of choice. My head tilts as I observe and snap another picture. Then, I’m just about ready to wrap things up.

The next place I focus is on the front door. Like every other access point, there are no signs of forced entry, and it only adds to the elegance of his kills. It isn’t lost on me that his scenes lack the messy, emotional chaos I’m accustomed to seeing. There’s almost a level of arrogance to it.

The Widowmakeris clearly never in a rush, taking his time to make precise cuts, and I have yet to see an incomplete web, which would indicate that he’d gotten spooked and left in haste. No, he takes his time, creating a masterpiece to his liking before standing over these poor, innocent people, admiring his handiwork.

A voice fades into my consciousness, and I realize I’d zoned out, startling when a dark figure walks up beside me.

“You good?” Martinez asks, intentionally not making eye contact. From a distance, I imagine it would look like we’re just discussing the case.

“Yep, just finishing up.”

He nods and tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, the badge on his hip glinting in the light of the foyer chandelier.

“Got plans tomorrow?”

I nod. “I do. I’m meeting friends for brunch. Obligatory once-a-month check-in.”

“Hm,” he mumbles. “You working tonight, then?”

“Yeah, but not until late. Thought I might get some cleaning done before I log in.”

His head dips with another nod, but I catch the hint of a smirk on his lips this time.

“Or… you could do something else with your time,” he suggests before adding a not so subtle, “Green light?”

The more he uses the term we agreed upon to discretely discuss whether we’d hook up for sex, the more it grates on my nerves. Perhaps it’s his overuse of the phrase that gets to me. In the few weeks since our last hookup, he’s asked to come by my place and get laid at least ten times.

Ten.

I’ve had excuses to thwart his advances, usually it’s been that I’m busy being Madam Divina Dreamwalker, but I actuallyamfree for a bit tonight. And there’s also the fact that I’d prefer for Martinez not to get bored and move on. Because, if I’m being honest, the low-commitment sex appeals to me. None of the pesky emotional stuff, with all the physical benefits. For a selfish, brute of a man, the sex doesn’t always suck. I mean, it’s not always great either, but it does the trick.

Most of the time.

Well,someof the time.

Shit, maybe itdoessuck.

“Green light,” I finally echo, and his smile broadens.

“Eight?”

I nod. “I’ll be ready.”

And byready, I mean I’ll arrange a much-needed meeting between my razor and my legs when I get home.

* * *

“Shit, babe, you’re so fucking wet,” Martinez growls, but what hedoesn’tknow is that I pre-lube before he gets here. Learned that trick when I realized he’s not well-versed in foreplay. This way, he walks away thinking he’s a stud, and I walk away without crotch burn.

Win-win.

“Right there?”

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