Page 60 of Turn That River Red

“You’re not a preacher,” I whisper, the first thing I think to say even though it’s stupid.

Ambrose stares at me for a long moment, his eyes black as pitch. Why didn’t I see that before?

“No,” he says. Then: “Not anymore.”

We stare at each other. My breaths come out shuddery and ragged and I keep waiting for him to grab me by the neck the way he did Deacon Price and slam my head against the wooden floorboards.

“Is your name really Ambrose?”

He tilts his head, frowning. I don’t expect him to answer.

“Yes,” he says. “Actually, it is.”

Then he crouches down in front of me, putting us closer to eye level. I jerk away on instinct, twisting my hands up in my skirt. Ambrose keeps drinking me in. It reminds me too much of our first night together. I had been afraid then, too, but for different reasons. It never even occurred to me he could be what he is.

“Why?” I whisper.

“You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

For some reason, that sends a new wave of fear shooting through me. I press myself against the back of the couch, eyes darting around. Ambrose shakes his head.

“Don’t try to escape,” he says. “I’m faster than you. Stronger than you. I can sense things you can’t. I have every advantage over you.”

I choke back tears. Choke back at my fear. “Why?” I scream it this time, and he sighs, pushes one of his hands through his hair. His tattoos ripple across his muscles.

“I’m the fucking boogeyman,” he says.

I stare at him in disbelief—because of all the ways he could answer,that’swhat he goes with?

His face is as handsome as it was the first time I saw him, but now I recognize the darkness lurking there. I see the devilin his sharp features. A devil that dragged me to hell with him.

“You killed Raul, didn’t you?”

It’s not until the question is out, hanging in the air between us, that I hope the answer is no. But Ambrose flicks his gaze away from me, and I know it was too much to hope for. Blood pounds through my head, and I drop my mouth open and wail, a long toneless sound I barely recognize as coming from me. Ambrose says nothing. Does nothing. Just watches me, his eyes glittering.

Max clicks into the living room, hops on the sofa beside me, puts his head on my lap. I want to push him away, but I’m too afraid. I’m too afraid to do anything but cover my face and wail out my terror.

Ambrose lets me.

I sob into my hands, trembling and shaking. When I finally lift my gaze, Ambrose is still there, watching me with a predator’s gaze.

“Why me?” I whisper. “Why did you do this to me?”

Ambrose sighs a little, his shoulders hitching. “I didn’t—” He drops his gaze to Max. “What I am. Why I did this. It’s complicated.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “You probably won’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” I snarl.

Ambrose rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine. “You wouldn’t,” he says, more firmly. “Which is why I’m going to show you instead.”

Fear surges through me again, and Ambrose sniffs the air, his eyes burning the way they did when we were in the bunker together. I press my thighs together, hating that my body floods with a sudden flare of lust.

He’s a killer. He killed Raul.

“I’m fond of you,” he says roughly. “Which is as unsettling for me as it is for you.”

I curl into myself, sinking my hand into Max’s fur for support. Ambrose’s cut-off sweatpants don’t leave much to the imagination, and I can see the outline of his erection, which sends another wave of black lust surging through me.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says, walking over to the dusty bookshelf. “Don’twantto kill you.”

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