Page 6 of Lady Death

He waited. And waited. Again, he got the feeling something wasn’t right. Abandoning the warm beer he held to strictly fit in, he made his way to the restrooms. Just as he turned the corner of the hallway that led to the men’s room, the woman came stumbling out. He went to steady her, but theirgazes met, and Ronin saw fear and disgust mingled together in crystalline blue eyes that seemed too big for her face. They were captivating, even as a wall came up and she pulled away. In the next instant, she was gone.

Ronin entered the men’s bathroom but didn’t hear a goddamn thing. Slowly, he went stall to stall, pushing the doors open and in the last one sat Dishon Peterson on the toilet. Pants down, penis nowhere to be found. This kill was a little different, however. Stab wounds peppered the torso, with the running blood resembling a Pollock painting.

“Motherfucker,” he hissed under his breath.

He quickly snapped a photo and then left quickly because he didn’t want to be around when someone found the body.

The woman.

Not a hitman, a hitwoman. Damn. He followed her out the door, pulling the fire alarm as he slipped out. The shrill bell sounded as he placed a call.

“I need clean-up immediately. Club Ivy. Men’s bathroom, third stall. I’ll pay double if you get here before the fire trucks show up.”

He hung up, knowing his clean-up crew would make it happen. Murky lighting over the area behind the building didn’t help much, but he did notice some blood leading away. She was hurt, and that gave him a way to track her. Moving swiftly, he darted his gaze around until he saw another drop of blood. Hurrying forward, he saw her turn a corner. A moment later, he was right behind her.

“Stop,” he ordered.

She did and slowly turned. One hand covered her side, and he saw blood pooling between her fingers. She opened her mouth, as if trying to say something, but the next moment her eyes rolled back. He managed to catch her before she toppled over. As he hoisted her up, the wig she wore slipped off andhe saw the true color. Auburn hair fit her better than black. He needed answers so he swept her up into his arms and headed back to his car.

Chapter Four

Noise filtered through her consciousness, luring her from the peace of sleep. She stretched and pain flared in her side. In that moment her memory of Peterson came rushing back. She sat up, immediately noticing that she no longer wore her dress, and pulled the blanket up her chest. Looking around, she had no clue where she was. In a strange bed in a strange loft, Keres took a few deep breaths to settle the panic threatening to engulf her sanity.

“You cost me a lot of money, you know that?”

Keres gasped and looked to the right where a man leaned against a metal, weight-bearing column. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t seem to place him. His arms were crossed over his chest, the black t-shirt molded to powerful muscles. His light green eyes contrasted sharply against his darker skin tone. Then it hit her. She’d seen him at the club as she stumbled from the men’s restroom, after killing Peterson.

Fear filled her, and for a moment, she was thrust back in time. Caged and helpless. That weak girl once more. Was he going to turn her in? Blackmail her? Rape her like the bastards she’d killed? It took almost every bit of strength she had to push that terror aside and look for a weapon of some kind, ofanykind, but came up blank.

“W-where are my clothes?” she asked, proud that her voice wobbled only a little. “Why am I here?”

“You collapsed in my arms,” he replied. “I’m a Good Samaritan.”

She highly doubted that.

“If you think you can rape me, I’m going to warn you right now you won’t like how I strike back.”

“Oh, I’ve seen your handiwork, and believe me, I’m a fan.”

She blinked.Um. What?

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where are my clothes? I need to leave.”

At least the windows revealed it was still night. Darby had to be freaking out.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you killed the three Deathmen.”

Defiant anger blazed through her. Who did this man think he was?

“I’m not telling you jack shit, Mister. Now where the fuck are my clothes?” He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Rolling her eyes, she wrapped the blanket around her body and rose, ready to search the studio loft from top to bottom.

“If you don’t tell me where they are, I may start tossing things in my search.”

She marched up to him and she stared him down, surprised at how tall he was. She stood five feet ten in her bare feet, and he had a few inches on her. Not intimidated at all, he just watched her, not budging. If he wanted a standoff, she’d give it to him. It dawned on her she should be afraid of him, or at least intimidated because he was a complete stranger, but she doubted he would’ve dressed her wound if he wanted to cause her harm.

“Okay, clearly you want answers—”

“You think?” he interjected.

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