Page 6 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

The man who’d tied me to a chair, beaten me until I was bruised, and attempted to drown me strolls down the aisle with lax confidence. Unaware of my presence, he looks like an average guy just getting off work, stopping by the store to grab whatever item his wife texted him to pick up. Or maybe his husband. Either way, there is a golden band wrapped around his finger, meaning he belongs to someone.

Even someone as vile as him belongs to another person, and he may not be the sole reason, but he is part of why I do not share that quality.

Why the person that belongs tomeis no longer here.

He must sense my gaze because he looks around until we make eye contact. Recognition flares, and it’s obvious he knows who I am. Hunger pools in my stomach, a familiar itch starting along my fingertips.

I feel like my blood might set on fire as the electric hum of opportunity races through me. Wrath strikes through my veins with violent speed, and I look at Player One not as my attacker but as something far better.

An outlet.

All of this miserable rage and guilt finally has a place to go, given the perfect chance to quench my thirst for revenge, even if it’s for a moment. I tighten my hands into fists, turning my knuckles white.

It was all their fault—hisfault. They are the reason Thatcher is missing from me. For all I know, this man could be the person who killed him. Knowing that he is already a dog for Stephen Sinclair means I wouldn’t doubt his involvement.

What I’d done to his partner, Michael, the other man who’d laid his hands on my body and tried to end my life, was only a preview of what I wanted to put Player One through.

I warned them what I would become if they took him from me. Now there is no need to fear the reaper. They should fear the woman who loves him.

Giving a soft smile, I hide any recognition and turn back to the tea selections while he stares at the back of my head. I let him look at me, calculate his plan on how to get rid of me.

The fear I’d once harbored for the craving that lives inside of me is no longer there. I’ve embraced what Henry Pierson turned me into, and I’m ready to let it off the chain.

Except this time, I don’t need a reason to hurt Player One. I don’t need an excuse or something to ease my future guilt. I no longer care if he’d done something wrong or deserves death.

I’m going to kill him for only one reason.

Because I want to.

Nothing but the overwhelming desire to feel his blood between my fingers.

Plucking a random tea from the shelf, I turn on my heel, making my rain boots squeak. I walk out of the aisle and towards the checkout, knowing he is behind me almost every step.

He looms like a shadow as I pay, taking the bag from the rack.

“Have a good night.”

“I will,” I reply to the teenage cashier.

With a steady walk, I settle into the eerie calm that falls upon my shoulders. I stroll to the doors and head into the snow once again. Sliding my hand into the pocket of my jacket, I run my fingers along the smooth metal that’s tucked away. It’s one of the more expensive items I’d stolen from Thatcher but possibly one of my favorites. I’d taken it from him our sophomore year of high school after taking a week to figure out his locker combination. I also stole a pack of gum from him that day.

I rub my thumb along the switchblade, coaxing the memory of him. All the things Thatcher had taught me—being precise, having a plan, being in control—seem to flutter to the back of my mind as I walk to my car. My only plan is that I’ll be breaking one of his most important rules.

Do not kill out of emotion.

Tonight, I am killing out of purely that.

Taking a life not to better society or help but to aid the ache inside of me. A way to pour all of my frustration and pain into something else. I want to kill so that I might feel a little better.

Player One is my mouse, caught in a tricky, unsuspecting maze. Last time, he’d been in control, and I’m sure he still feels that way as I walk to my car, parked in the dimly lit lot.

The streetlamp flickers, threatening to go out. My fingers hit the unlock button, the sound echoing. My heart is pumping at a steady rhythm, as if even my body has accepted what I am.

I’d detached my emotions, removed them from the equation, and the killer inside of me has taken over in order to guarantee my survival. My fingers hum with excitement as I pull open the back door, tossing the bag of tea on the floorboards behind the driver’s seat.

I count to three in my mind. That’s all it takes before he shoves me with the full force of his body, quick to push me into the back seat of my car, pressing a thick hand on my back.

Adrenaline courses through my system, my mouth staying closed as he lays himself on top of me. I struggle, kicking my feet and turning so that I’m facing him. The weight of his body presses me into the leather. Curling my fingers around the weapon in my pocket, I stare up at him with patient eyes, silent, waiting for him to do anything that isn’t predictable.

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