Page 5 of Meating Dalton

One minute he’s breathing, croaking his way through a tale I wasn’t prepared to hear and in the next he’s dead.

“I’m fine. You can go. Unless Rhys sent you out here.” I doubt the veteran called Deaton. No, my cousin possesses an unnatural sixth sense of when I’m dancing near the edge of the abyss. It mocks me, whispering for me to jump in, that it’ll numb all of my problems.

But it can’t rewind time to convince Morgan Daniels I’m worth keeping. It’s the albatross looped around my neck, choking any air I manage to inhale.

“She was wrong, Zac.” Deaton doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. Ten years older, but he’s caught flashes of the dark side of his aunt Samantha, the side she hid from her husband before I killed her.

How does he know that it’sherhaunting me and not Charles?

Maybe because Charles never locked me in closets or withheld food from me.

I’d be dead if not for Deaton. One day, he took one look at the bones protruding through my skin and insisted I have dinner at his house with his parents. Despite anticipating a cruel trick from Samantha, I agreed, tear-stained and pleading with my mother to let me go with him. She only agreed after Uncle Dick promised to keep me for the night, giving her a reprieve from my presence.

Deaton’s pity used to sour my stomach and make my skin itch. Instead, gratitude stings my insides because he saved me that night. Who knew how many more missed meals my young body could take before it gave out?

Samantha Lewis certainly didn’t give a fuck.

I could never repay him, even if I despise the leash he pulls taut around me from time to time. I’d kill for the fucker. I just hope he doesn’t make me bury him in his emo damn clothing. Black is my color.

Remembering his off-hand but spot on comment, I open my mouth.

“Maybe. Or maybe she was right. Maybe if she hadn’t behaved the way she did, I wouldn’t have turned into a monster. Either way, we won’t know now, will we?” Pulling my eyes from the dancing streaks of light, I lock onto my cousin. Sharp, defined facial features catch the inconsistent light. It brightens brown eyes to a beautiful hazel.

“I guess we’re both monsters then,” he remarks in a bored tone, head turning to lock eyes with me. Emotion rarely swims in the brown depths, and I never appreciated it more than I do now. I couldn’t stand his pity tonight. He hides it pretty damn well, but in the earlier days, it bled through nearly every selfless act.

He’s the literal fucking wind beneath my wings. Blinking, I avoid the eyes that see too much. Numb lips move, spilling the poison in my veins.

“I won’t rest until they’re dead, D. I can’t. I need to do this.” My voice cracks only slightly and in typical Deaton fashion, he doesn’t question me further. In my peripheral, I catch his head moving up and down, a lit cigarette held between his lips.

Together, we stare into the flames, watching it burn away my sin. If only it could do it for every one of them. Tonight, I’ll take the win and tomorrow, I’ll resume the hunt.

Morgan Daniels owes me some fucking answers.

GODDESS MEAT

DALTON

“Have you given it a rest yet?” Deaton asks after taking a sip from his bottle of beer. Another week slipped past me while I hunted down the names on the list. Todd Peterson is next but he’s out of the fucking country for the next two months. I could always catch a flight to wherever he’s at but would that be too extreme?

But I don’t answer my cousin, staring down into my glass of whiskey as I ponder my next move. I wish killing everyone at the adoption agency was a viable option for fucking refusing to tell me anything. Thank the man upstairs for weak-willed women. Amanda truly did go down well with a glass of wine.

The next best option to slaughtering the employees at the agency would be eliminating whoever invented closed adoptions, making it illegal to disclose details, even to the individuals involved.

What kind of dumb shit is that? Don’t I have a right to know where the fuck I come from?

“You need to get laid,” my cousin chirps. Scowling, I shoot him a glare that he ignores with a smirk. The weird fuck is always harping on about me getting my dick wet. As if. I don’t fuck animals. Turning from him to glance at the patrons of the bar we’re at, I try to see what he sees.

Not that he’s getting any pussy, either. The fucker is bored. Bored with life, bored with killing and bored with women. He needs a new damn hobby, to hang up his hat as theHeartbreakerkiller.

Music pumps from speakers spaced throughout the establishment. Recessed lights flash intermittently. Black lacquer walls help shield the extracurricular activities of some of the drunk animals present.

They’re all animals. To be killed, to be skinned and to be eaten. The end.

Why would I want to put my dick in any one of them?

A hand lands on my shoulder and I debate the logistics of removing it without spilling any blood on my all black clothing. His other hand enters my line of sight and points to my right, guiding my eyes to a wall of flesh facing us.

“Her,” he coaxes. Lights shimmer off mocha skin, and it ripples with the woman’s movements. Her dress exposes her entire back, even the dip above where her round ass starts. I have to admit, it’s a nice ass.

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