Page 33 of Cruel Games

I had to fight the sudden urge to rub myself against him and mark my territory.

Something about his wildness sang to the wild in me.

I didn’t like it.

I didn’t want to like it.

But it had been so long since someone made me feel anything . . .

I slipped off of his lap and yanked the knife from his shoulder, eliciting a yelp of pain from the dog in the chair. An answering yelp of sympathy sounded from his friend, Jackal, and I felt their desperation and fear taint the air. It made it thick, choked me in a pleasant, reminiscent way, and I could only hope they felt the same.

I wanted them to choke on their fear. I wanted them on edge.

I lived a lifetime of pain, and so would they.

Would I actually be satisfied with killing them?

Yes. Yes, I would.

I wiped the wet blood off the blade of my knife onto the edge of my skirt and watched Jackal study the knife’s every move with dangerous intent. I decided to play with him some.

After all, what good was food if you couldn’t play with it some?

I knelt in front of him slowly, taking me to eye level with the murderous fuck. “You want this, Jackal?” I waved the blade in front of his face, a smile on my lips, teasing, taunting him, knowing damn well he couldn’t move his arms to get to me. “What would you even do with it?”

As the tip pressed against the end of his nose, then slipped to his lips and moved down to his chin, the breath hissed out of him like a hot tea kettle on the stove as it boiled over. “Fuck you, bitch,” he muttered, his nose twitching. “I’d kill you, for starters.”

“Kill me?” I rocked back on my heels, laughing at his bravado. “You can’t even move. In another thirty or so minutes, you’ll pass out, and a few hours after that?” I drew my finger across my throat, mocking him. “Well, you’ll be dead.”

He looked into my soul as I stood, staring down at him until he tore his penetrating eyes away first.

That’s right, you bastard. I’m the top bitch in this doghouse.

The laugh that left me wasn’t very human-like. But I couldn’t stop it from spilling over. Couldn’t keep myself from laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation.

Here I was, the three men I’d been hunting for years at my mercy, a number of torture tools on my table, ready to be used. All I had to do was lift a finger, and it would all be over.

And I could go back to . . .

To what?

My smile faltered for the first time tonight, and I growled at my own stupidity.

How dare I let them get under my skin? I was not their toy; they were mine. I was getting undertheirskin, not the other way around.

I raised the blade again, and, just for funsies, I put it in Jackal’s hand, chuckling as he clenched it in his fist and immediately started swinging around again.

“You’re a bigger idiot than I gave you credit for.”

I quirked a brow as he swore, realizing, I think, that even though he had that knife, he was powerless to me. His hand was pinned against his side. He was more likely to stab himself than get anywhere near stabbing me. And yet he struggled still, fighting the inevitable.

I had to hand it to him. There was a hell of a fight in this dog. Putting him down wouldn’t be easy.

Shooting me doesn’t seem to keep this dog down.

My eyelids fluttered shut as I recalled those words from the night he murdered my father, the malice and taunting danger in them sending a chill down my spine in the moment. Now, though, it warmed my blood. It was a promise that he would put up a fight.

And that meant I could have far more fun draining that fight from him.

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