Page 37 of Cruel Games

This new fixation on pain as pleasure had only surfaced when I ran intoher.What could possibly be so different about her that I lost all my self-respect and wanted to be put down like the dog I pretended to be?

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she cooed at me, feigning concern though her eyes gave her enjoyment away. “Did that hurt?”

I bared my teeth at her as she leaned down and gripped my hair in her fist, yanking my head around to hover above her knees. “Fuck you,” I spat, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t look up and catch my shame in full view, just above her head. “I’ve had worse.”

“Oh, Iknow,”she murmured darkly, the implied threat anundertone to her words that gave me pause. I know all about how hard it is to killyou,Jackal.”

She gripped the cigarette between her lips, moving a hand on each side of my shirt as she wrenched it open, buttons flying as it tore open to expose my chest. “You’ve taken quite a few bullets and lived to tell the tale, isn’t that right?” She took a long pull off the cigarette, relishing the smoke filling her lungs, her eyes drifting shut for a brief moment as she parted those lips and French inhaled the smoke like some sort of exotic dragon.

Fuck, that was hot.

“Here,” she said viciously, stabbing the lit end of her cancer stick into the scarred skin of my shoulder, just above the collarbone. “I wonder who put this mark in your filthy hide. Was it a target who refused to go down without a fight?” Her nails dug into the skin of my fresh wound, and I whined under my breath, hating and loving this at the same time.

At least if she killed me, I might get to come in my pants before I died.

Her eyes traveled to my arm, where a second scar sat at the juncture of my elbow–a bullet had only grazed me there, an accident, really, more like friendly fire borne from terrible communication and sheer stupidity when I was younger. “What was this one? Were you running away from someone?”

The pain lanced through me again as she pressed that fiery ball of hell to the second scar, practically stubbing the damn thing completely out. “Fuck,” I whispered, closing my eyes as the smell of my barbecued ass filled my nostrils yet again.

“Oh no, the big, bad Jackal’s a pussy when it comes to pain.”

From the other side of me, I heard Dingo let out a little laugh. “That’s hilarious.”

Don’t even fucking say it, you asshole.

“Don’t worry, Dingo, dearest,” she tossed out flippantly, her eyes on my chest again. “I’ll get around to you soon enough.”

“Take your time,” he muttered back, his voice suddenly less enthusiastic than before. “I’m in no rush.”

“Yeah, he’s not exactly going anywhere,” I huffed, already frustrated that she’d turned her attentions elsewhere, and slightly afraid that she might turn them on Coyote next.

Those long, pale legs crossed right above–or below–my head, almost causing me to swallow my tongue. Her new position meant I could see the edge of her panties peeking out from beneath the too-short pleats, an oversight on her part, most likely. But that didn’t stop an anticipatory shiver from running down my spine, causing those pesky chains of mine to rattle ominously.

She caught me staring and instantly tugged the edge of her skirt down, eyes burning a hole into my chest now.

“Get a good look, did you?” Her mouth pursed into a straight line as she regarded me warily, angrily. “It’ll be your last.”

“Don’t worry,” I lied, hoping she couldn’t read the truth in my hungry gaze. “There wasn’t anything worth looking at under that skirt.”

Liar.

Yeah, so what if I was a liar? I would take the knowledge to my grave.

“Where were we?” The cigarette was nearly out now, so she flicked it across the floor and lit another, the fire at the tip reflected in the deep blue-grey of her eyes. She looked like a demon, the way the light changed everything about her image, her profile more like a dangerous demon from hell than a mere girl we met in the club.

Again, I wondered who she was. But there was no use in wondering—she made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in telling us.

Or, me. Maybe it was justmeshe didn’t want to tell.

“Ah, yes. Your bullet wounds.”

Those claw-like, sharpened fake nails of hers drew a trailfrom the edge of my elbow to my side and then up and over the shape of my pecs, coming to a halt on the final scar I wore as a result of someone’s bullet.

I sucked in a breath as she traced the outline of it, obviously more interested in it than she wanted to admit.

“This one feels personal.”

It was.

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