Page 50 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Thatcher—”

His head turns, and I find how dead his eyes are. There is zero recognition behind his gaze. I could be anyone standing in front of him right now. It knocks the breath out of me, the coldness.

“Did he touch you?”

The question startles me.

Not for me, not for Conner, but for the aftermath of Thatcher’s actions.

Detectives are on campus. Conner Godfrey is a respected teacher. He’s best friends with our primary target. This death would not go unpunished. And I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t care.

I’ve witnessed what Thatcher looks like bloodthirsty. The way he changes, embraces the person his father created, and thrives. But this? I’ve never seen this. The regal elegance of a sadistic killer, one with no care of consequences and not an ounce of remorse for human life.

Can he be both?

Can he be a man that feels so much and also the one who feels nothing at all?

“Thatcher.” Conner clears his throat. I observe him in my peripheral vision, the way he straightens a little. “There are quite a few people who have been looking for you. I don’t think being here is smart for you.”

Is Godfrey trying to protect Thatcher? Or rather, himself?

Thatcher is innocent of the copycat killings, but his entire life has been painted in blood. There isn’t any person in Ponderosa Springs that doesn’t believe every wicked rumor spoken about him.

They all fear him.

My throat narrows as I try to swallow. Thatch’s gaze is intense. He watches me, waiting for my answer. Ever so slowly, as if he’s gliding, he moves in my direction. Conner’s voice may as well have been white noise.

“Do not make me repeat myself, Lyra,” he says calmly, unbuttoning the front of his suit and sliding a hand into his pocket.

I hold Conner Godfrey’s fate.

His heart is practically beating in my tiny hands, awaiting a blade. I’m judge and jury. Thatcher is the executioner at the gallows, waiting for my call. Whatever I say will decide life and death.

It’s a power I’ve held before but never thought of until this very moment.

Regardless of the outcome of the disastrous fallout, I can’t lie to him.

He knows I won’t. I promised I wouldn’t.

“Yes,” I exhale, the word exiled from my lungs like black magic.

I can feel the threads of fate shredding. Thatcher closes in on me, blocking me in against the wall of books.

“Do you remember what I told you would happen if he came near you again, pet?”His fingers are icy when they touch me. Two fingers, stroking the side of my face.

The memory of us in the mausoleum unravels. The possessive, feral lust that had taken over his body. It was the first time he’d touched me intimately and when he’d given me the one and only warning of what would happen to Godfrey if he got too close.

This could ruin everything, would ruin Thatcher if someone finds out.

“Please,” I beg, my eyes burning. “I’m not worth this.”

His finger swipes across my cheek, catching the drop of water before it falls any further. My breath catches, and I can do nothing but watch as he presses his thumb into his mouth, cleaning my tears from his skin.

“Oh, darling,” he purrs, swallowing my tears, “you’re worth it. Bloodshed and all.”

Thatcher

The grandfather clock chimes just as my hand slips into the leather gloves. I squeeze my fist, feeling the material stretch over my skin.

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