Page 13 of Reaper's Hunt

Malik’s teeth dig into the back of my shoulder blade, a sharp, searing pain that sends me spiraling toward the edge. “Fuck, babe,” I gasp, his thrusts growing more erratic now as he chases his own release. He spills inside me, his teeth digging in harder, all of the sensations driving me into a frenzy. I explode across the bed, cum soaking the sheets, my body shaking as the orgasm rips through me. It’s been a while since Malik fucked me like that, like the demons were crawling around in his head and begging to get out.

Some part of that has to be finding a new obsession but the other part is something else: something darker, more twisted. Unfortunately, Malik doesn’t do heart to hearts, and I’m not really one for all of the emotions. Hence the reason Selene still thinks I’m the overbearing asshole of a childhood sweetheart and not the man who wants to claim her fully, completely,forever.

Malik hums, a low, satisfied sound, and pulls out slowly, the drag making me hiss. He starts to climb off the bed, but I reach out and grab his wrist, yanking him back down beside me. “Not so fast,” I muse as I roll over to stare into those deep blue eyes. “I hear you haven’t been sleeping, so now it’s my turn to fuck you. Maybe you’ll pass out.”

He chuckles, sprawling back on the bed, his eyes glinting with challenge. “I’m too wired for that. Nothing is going to make me pass out unless you’ve got someone for me to bleed.” Malik huffs out a wild breath, grinning over at me. “Not opposed to you fucking me, though.” The fucker shifts down the bed, wedging himself between my thighs, two fingers pushing his cum back into my ass. “Or me fuckingyouagain.”

Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m already sore. Using my legs to trap him, I maneuver until he’s flat on his stomach and I’m straddling his ass. He immediately goes pliant, my sadistic killer falling apart every time I’m in charge. It’s something I’ll never get tired of seeing as I lean over his back, lips brushing against his ear. “Don’t make me chain you to the bed, because I will, babe,” I murmur. “Everyone needs sleep, even the crazy ones.”

He wriggles beneath me, silently asking to flip over. I scoot back and let him, his eyes a few shades darker than they were before. “Well, fuck me, gorgeous,” he says, voice a sultry rasp. “Fuck me into oblivion.”

“You going to tell me what’s bothering you first?” I ask as I reach for the lube, slicking up my fingers. I wait for his answer, watching as his expression darkens and then softens, Malik shaking his head.Didn’t think so.“Then maybe tomorrow,” I purr as I sift my hand between his cheeks, rimming his needy hole. He lets out a small moan wholly uncharacteristic of the beautiful, tortured soul I know. But God, it’s mine.He’smine.

Of all the secrets I hold, this is the one I’d want Selene to accept.

So that I can have them both.

Selene

It’sjustpastmidnightand I’m bone-tired, my body aching like I’ve been dragged through hell and back. Taking yet another shower left my skin raw, the scalding water doing nothing to wash away the weight of tonight—the blood, the nails, the fucking texts I got earlier in the night that said my name. I even tried using that new cucumber melon wash but now I just don’t feel likeme.

My silver hair is damp, clinging to my neck as I stumble into the living room, naked and shivering in the cold of my shithole apartment. Three trash bags sit by the door, stuffed with bloodied sheets, plastic scraps, and the rags I used to scrub the guest bedroom clean. I should burn them in the fireplace and then discard the ashes, but now I have to find another plan of attack because leaving isn’t an option. Not with some bastard out there holding my hammer, my birth name, my fucking life in their hands.

I need a drink, something to drown the panic clawing my chest, but the kitchen’s dry, not even a drop of cheap vodka left. The last kill had me on a whole ass bender as I danced around my apartment, singing some bullshit from a band I don’t even like. “Fucking perfect,” I mutter, grabbing my phone from the counter and checking it again. Nothing from the caller, no new taunts, just silence that feels like a trap.

The problem is that while I’m terrified, I enjoyed the thrill of that moment. The idea that I didn’t know who was pressed up against me, the sultry edge to his voice, the hunger in his words. I already know that I’m a sick bastard, but that just drives it home. Some part of me wants him to bend me over and stick me with that cock he had pressed against my ass. To take me and fuck me senseless as he whispered, “Sparrow,” in my ears.

“Jesus Christ, Selene.Absolutely not.”

It’s fantasies like those that get me in trouble because then I go looking for things. A few years ago, I ended up on some kind of kink app and nearly got choked out from an overeager patron that didn’t understand “no” or “stop.” Nope, all fantasies have to stay locked up unless I can goad Dante into it.

For now, though, I’m getting myself that fucking drink I promised myself, and then I’m going to lose myself in bad decisions. Like a one-night stand with someone who has a cock big enough for me to feel it tomorrow. And then tomorrow, I’ll make a real plan—pack, run, start over somewhere far from Ashthorne.

I grab something from the dryer, another tight black dress that’s cut low enough to show off my cleavage. One of the dresses that would have Dante growling at me and murmuring ‘mine’ in my ear as he fucked me into the mattress. He’d kill me for wearing it out, for flaunting what’s his, and that makes it all the more thrilling.

Pulling on my boots, I grab both of my phones and head out, ready for a few hours of bliss before I have to return to the crime scene in my apartment. The night air is a welcome relief as I make the few blocks over to Sinner’s Notch, the only bar still open at this hour. It’s quieter now, past the peak of Ashthorne’s depravity, but there’ll be enough drunks and losers to buy me drinks, maybe take me home for a quick fuck to dull the edge.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I yank it out, ready to growl at another cryptic text, but it’s not my regular phone. It’s the burner, the one only clients use. My stomach twists as I slip my phone back into my pocket and pull the other one out. Another job so soon feels wrong, like a setup, but I answer, pressing it to my ear, my voice sharp. “Yeah?”

A voice crackles through, distorted by a changer, low and mechanical. “Need a job done.”

I stop walking, the streetlamp casting my shadow long and jagged. This feels like the start of some awful horror movie where I’ll need to start looking over my shoulder. “Who?” I snap, my grip tightening on the phone. “Need more details, big guy.”

He chuckles, the sound grating in my ears. “Need a guy dead. Heard you’re the one for that.”

My laugh comes out sharp and bitter, my breath fogging in the cold. “I might be, but I need more information, or I’m hanging up and blocking your number. Since you called me, I’m guessing the police can’t or won’t help with this.”

“You’re good,” he says, a hint of amusement breaking through the distortion.

“No, I just know if you’re calling this number after midnight, it’s not a booty call,” I retort. “Who the fuck is it?” Most people calling me are shy as fuck. Only a handful of them know exactly what they want and have the funds to immediately pay to get the job done. But this asshole sounds like he’s messing with me.

“Philip Smission.”

I go silent because now I know he’s messing with me. Philip Smission is the mayor’s son, a spoiled prick with a rap sheet he’s never answered for. Drugs, assaults, and whispers of worse. Killing him would put a heavier spotlight on The Reaper, a bigger one than is already there and I can’t afford that. “That’s the goddamn mayor’s son. I’m gonna need a damn good reason for that bullshit and it’s gonna cost you a fortune.” All that illegal shit Philip’s been up to is none of my business. I deal with abusers, rapists, piss poor excuses of men that have or will evade the law. Not someone who takes a bit of meth and makes their father, the mayor, look bad.

I know I shouldn’t touch this, shouldn’t even listen, but I’m already in too deep, and part of me wants to hear him out. Because without this outlet, I’m not sure where I’ll end up. This craving to right the wrongs so violently won’t just go away if I disappear from Ashthorne. It’ll just manifest into something else.

The voice hums, considering. “Actually, I was thinking this job’s a tit for tat. I’ll send you a reason he needs to die and you’ll kill him. I’ll pay you after.”

---