Page 3 of Meating Dalton

“Could you possibly tell me who worked the case? I’d love to hear whatever stories they have to tell, to make me feel closer to my parents.” I bat my lashes, and flash only a half of my dimpled smile.

Dark pupils expand, invading the brown irises. A pulse throbs in her throat, a throat I’d love to slice cleanly across with the blades hidden beneath my clothing. That's it, take the bait. My tattoos end just below my jawline, lining my throat. But my face remains unblemished, luring prey into a false sense of safety.

My smile says “I’m safe” and “I’d never dream of hurting you.” Fucking idiots. Never trust a pretty face or a smile. But people don’t listen to their elders anymore and all the better for me. Amanda returns her eyes to her computer, pressing buttons in a rapid pattern and a whirring sound starts up behind her.

Dark hair whips forward before falling to rest against her back as she hastens to the printer, slender fingers pulling my documents free. White teeth nibble at soft lips. I’m close to losing her. I feel it slipping from my fingers like vapors of smoke. I need her more than she needs me.

My instincts burrow deep, grasping at ages old acting lessons. Tears swell and I temporarily wonder when the last time I genuinely cried was. It’s too late for such thoughts now. One fat droplet falls, landing on the swirling streaks of brown in the marble countertop.

“Oh, my God,” a soft sympathetic voice intones. I fight the smile wanting to curve my lips. It’s not about the pleasure of luring prey. It’s the hunt, the chase, the search for the truth. That’s all I need, to know who my parents were and why they gave me up. If they won’t willingly tell me, I’ll cut it from them.

Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. It’s how I operate best.

But I must play the game, lifting the mask from my face while still shielding my true nature behind layers of civility. I despise it but it's more than a necessary evil. It’s survival.

“I just don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t find out more about them,” I whisper, letting tears leak free and slide down my cheeks. The blatant display of weakness sinks into me, gnawing into my tender, fleshy layers. A true predator would never stoop to this level, it whispers. I want to jam a knife into the imagined throat of my inner monologue. I detest it.

But the time isn’t right to eliminate all traces of my adoptive mother and father’s essence. It permeates every atom of my being. I can’t peel back enough skin to root out the source.

Amanda whimpers softly, paper sliding across the marble countertop.

“You didn’t get this from me. They’re just names, the names of everyone that worked on your case. I can’t tell you more.” Her voice fades into a soft, pathetic whisper. Sincerity lances me. My defenses deflect the carefully targeted blow. The cute brunette tried and failed to slide beneath my defenses. They remain resolutely closed. Just like she shouldn’t trust a predator, I’d never trust prey.

“Thank you, Amanda,” I whisper softly, keeping my eyes downcast. It’s easier to hide the madness this way. Her fingers slide across one of my tattooed hands. Unmarred flesh contrasts entirely too nicely with the ivory bones painted on my skin.

Damn. She shouldn’t have touched me. Pity, I was considering letting her live past this encounter. How sad that it just might be Amanda’s day to die and she doesn’t know it yet. It’s fucking unlucky. For her. Sucks to be meat, I guess.

BLACK

DALTON

Well, no one ever said piss smells lovely. A clear container holding a substantial amount of urine the color of hay rests next to another container filled with congealed pig’s blood. A smile pulls at my lips, leaning my head back and letting the soothing notes of Bach wash over me, chasing away the restless energy that’s dogged me for days now. Amanda’s list proved fruitful, and I fought a simmering rage upon discovering my late adopted father’s solicitor on the list.

Turning my back on the table housing my cooking ingredients, I face Jacobson Black. Bound with rope tethering him to a chair, he appears frail, sickly even. My upper lip curls at the idea of feasting on cancerous meat. Too busy following his every move for the past three days, I haven’t found time to check his health records. Oh, well.

If I had dogs, he’d make a hearty meal for them. My bare feet slap tile, approaching the unconscious older man.

Wrinkles line his face, and gray streaks pepper his hair. Looks like he’s led a long, hard life. How fortunate it’s about to end.

A slap shatters the quiet in between transitions, mournful notes chasing the echo. Shaking out my stinging hand, I glare at Jacobson, watching his eyes slowly blink to life. Shaggy furrowed brows cause his wrinkles to deepen. My smile stretches wide as he begins the predictable routine of tugging on the restraints, mouth opening and closing in shock. Mock innocence paints my face, concealing my rage that rises with the crescendo of the music.

“Hello, again, Mr. Black. I was hoping we could revisit the topic of my birth parents.” My lips morph from a smile, setting the tone of the evening. I played nice and asked politely after my father’s funeral for details about my adoption. He gave me nearly the same spiel as the adoption agency. Knives find their way into my hands, as familiar as a lover’s caress.

No shirt dons my torso. A harness crisscrosses my chest, leather sheaths lovingly holding my beloveds.

I want his blood to stain my fucking skin as I carve the truth out of his traitorous, weak body.

“Start talking, Mr. Black, before I lose the little patience God saw fit to bless me with,” I sneer at the elderly man.

“Mr. Lewis, please. I can’t—” His denial ends in a high-pitched scream, blood welling around the point of the knife I stabbed straight into his right leg. It does precious little to calm me. I am tired ofwaitingfor pathetic people to deign to tell me the truth about where I come from. The knowledge should’ve been gifted to me long before now.

Mr. Black gets to suffer from both sets of parents’ lack of insight into how I’d cope with being left in the dark.

Left in the dark.

“Please let me out! I’ll be good!”

No, that bitch is dead. I bury the other blade into Mr. Black’s other leg. His squeal tickles my ear, urging me to do more damage, to disappear into the alluring embrace of bloodlust. I step back, letting air sweep into my chest. It heaves up and down as I’m caught in the pendulum of the past and present.

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