Page 11 of The Hellkeeper

Another hit.

I clench my jaw, inhaling slow and deep. Sheer fucking rage bubbles up at the thought of leaving her alone.

If I didn’t have a reputation to uphold, I’d be up her ass twenty-four seven.

I crawl out from under the bed, not caring to be quiet; she already knows I’m here. I stretch out my limbs, shaking off the stiffness in my muscles.

She’s trembling. Shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.

A faint whisper escapes her lips, and I still. What is she saying?

I take a step closer, then another, leaning in just enough to hear the soft, hurried words spilling from her mouth. She’s praying.

Her voice is raw, desperate; each word more fervent than the last. It spills from her lips like poetry spun in agony.

I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me.

I almost laugh.

Almost.

Nothing can save her from me. Even in hell, I would seek her out.

I pull the bloody gift box off her bedside drawer, slipping it into my pocket. She’ll freak the fuck out if it’s still here in the morning, and I don’t want her losing more sleep than she already will.

Something gnaws at me. It stops me from leaving. A temptation that consumes me alive, swallowing me whole.

So I listen.

I step back to the bed, standing right beside her.

Her prayers increase, faster, louder, as if she can feel me, as if some instinctual part of her knows I’m right here, watching, breathing her in. The scent of her fills my lungs, and my eyes roll back. Slowly, I press a kiss to her head through the blanket, letting my lips linger on the woman I’ve claimed.

She screams bloody murder, hiding further under the blanket. With a sigh, I straighten. She’s not ready yet. But she will be. She will get used to me.

I turn and walk out, her frantic prayers chasing after me.

***

Oliver Miller. Clean-cut. Polite. The kind of guy mothers trust and women let their guard down around. But he’s a monster under the badge. A serial rapist.

This time, he picked the wrong girl. Her father is in the Mob, and the second he found out, Oliver’s fate was sealed. A dead man walking.

He doesn’t even get the chance to scream. I carve the blade straight through his throat, severing muscle and bone. His body twitches violently, eyes wide and haunted. Blood surges from his neck, soaking his police uniform.

I crouch down and grip his hair. His head separates from his shoulders. The request was clear: They wanted his head. So I deliver.

Knives aren’t my favorite tool of elimination, but when the client wants it, I oblige.

I wrap it up, stuff it into a duffel bag, and wipe my blade on his shirt. Gore doesn’t bother me. Nothing does.

***

The meeting spot is an upscale cigar lounge. The kind of place where men like Richard Davis sit in luxury while dealing in blood. He’s already waiting for me, a thick cigar smoldering between his fingers. His daughter, Linda, sits beside him, her eyes locked on me like I just descended from the heavens.

I drop the bag onto the table. Blood seeps through the fabric, staining everything it touches. The stench of death is heavy, mixing with the scent of tobacco and overpriced cologne.

Richard takes a drag of his cigar. “You always deliver, Damien.”

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