Page 6 of Cry, Little Dove

I raise the binoculars to my eyes. Her room across the street is still dark.

Restlessness trickles down my spine and I shift in my seat. Tonight is the night. Everything is prepared, and my patience has run out. No more games. No more waiting.

But how fuckin’ long is she gonna sleep?

I switch on the radio. The speakers crackle as I turn the tuning knob until I find a rock station. I tap my foot in rhythm with the quiet music, focusing on her window again. Thank fuck I do. With the lights off in the room and only the motel sign shining inside, I didn’t notice that she’s finally awake.

She sits in the bed, staring at the curtains like she just realized she forgot to close them. A deep frown appears on her forehead while she looks at her phone for a few minutes before getting up.

My cock comes to life when I see her ass peeking out under her shirt, and I have to stop myself from jumping out of the car. I want to burst into the room, grab her, and bend her over that bed.

She leaves her phone on the nightstand and stops by the closet on her way to the bathroom. Disappointment cools my desire as she closes the door behind her.

I lean back, dropping the binoculars on the seat. My fingers need something to do if I’m not allowed to dig them into her hips. I grab another cigarette from the crumpled packet on the dashboard when my phone lights up.

I groan. If I don’t answer, she’ll call and I hate phone calls—even if it’s my sister. This ain’t the time for a chat. I gotta concentrate on my prey.

My other life feels universes away. Dr. Cain Morrow, accomplished surgeon, reclusive businessman and philanthropist, doesn’t exist in this moment. When I’m on the prowl, I shed my skin like a brutal monster hiding beneath the façade of a good man.

Nobody would recognize me looking like this. Not with the jeans, the hat and the boots, showing off tattoos I normally hide under strict business attire. Not with a five-o’-clock shadow darkening my face while I drive around in my dad’s banged-up pickup truck instead of my brand-new, luxury SUV.

But this version of me is closest to my true self. I’m more comfortable in the gloom of depravity than in the bright lights of the nice, responsible guy the world expects me to be.

My phone flashes with a new message and I smile.

Movement at the motel catches my eye and the phone slips from my hand, falling to the floor.

It’sher.

My little dove lingers in the door to her room, wearing a tiny red number so fuckin’ tight, it looks like it’s gonna rip at the seams. She’s still damn short compared to me, but the black high heels add to her height.

Where the hell do you think you’re going dressed like this, darlin’?

Fantasies spring up in my mind and I swallow thickly. I imagine her hair wrapped around my fist like a leash, her eyes watering and makeup running down her face as she chokes on my cock. Then pounding into her sweet pussy, filling her with my seed while she cries out my name.

She locks her door and tucks the key into her bag. Then she stands there, lost. Her head turns.

Is she waiting for somebody?

Her phone hasn’t rung once in the past days and she doesn’t seem to know anybody in town. She strikes me as kind of a loner. We have that in common, at least when my sister Mandy or work responsibilities don’t force me to be social.

I prefer being by myself. Humans are too complicated. Two-faced users, the whole lot of ‘em, and none can withstand a glimpse into the bottomless, pitch-black abyss of my soul. It’s better to keep my distance.

She fumbles with the shoulder strap of her purse, and I follow her gaze across the street. My hands clench into fists when I realize where she’s looking. That shitty bar. I visited the place myself, and it’s a den of filthy bastards just waiting to get their grubby hands on a ravishing woman like her.

I shake my head.Oh no you won’t, little dove. Hell naw.

I spit the unlit cigarette on the floor and lean over to the glove compartment to take out the plastic syringe I prepared. Making sure the cap is on the needle, I tuck it into the back of my waistband, hidden under my loose fleece shirt. Like a reflex, I reach for the hunting knife at my belt and get out of the truck.

I stalk down the dark street, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

She’s mine. Mine to take and fuck. Mine to gut. I won’t let anybody else lay a finger on her.

The vending machine buzzes and spits out my crumpled dollar note.

“Really?Again?” I kick the bottom, grimacing at the pain shooting through my toes. “Just take my fucking money!”

My headache is much better. The shower and painkillers helped, and slapping on makeup and doing my hair always makes me feel put together. But this…thisis the last straw. How dare this stupid machine stand between me and a little snack?!

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