Page 6 of The Wraith & Her Killer

As in… the lost Kuznetsov Bratva Princess.

A hard, painfulthumpresounds within the empty cavity in my chest at seeing her face beneath me for the first time in ten years.

The first thing I notice is that she’s covered in bruises. She’s got a black eye, possibly a broken nose with dried blood crusted around it,and a cut slicing through the left side of her lips. Her neck is already littered with purple bruises, as well as her chest and shoulders.

You know what, let’s just say her entire body is one big fucking bruise, okay? Somebody hurt her, but this wasn’t just a punishment. They wanted to deliver a message that wouldn’t need repeating. Evidently it wasn’t enough since I’ve been called here. The nightmares that once haunted her have come to life and to be frank, it’s got me seeing red.

The second thing I notice is that she’s fucking flawless beneath her injuries. She’s got the features of a goddess. Deep tan skin and high cheekbones. I can tell that beneath all the blood, bruising, and swelling, lies a pert nose accompanied by a full set of lips, accentuated with a prominent cupid’s bow. Her left arm is covered from her shoulder to just below her elbow with fine line leaves and vines, tiny little stars woven in between the loops and whorls of the foliage. Her ears are covered in mismatched gold hoops and studs. Bright, pastel peach-colored hair fans out on her pillow, framing her face and almost giving her an ethereal glow.

The acceptance in her eyes makes the vacant cavity in my chest do that odd thumping thing again, this time so hard that it blurs my vision, and suddenly I feel the last threads of my control snap. A decade of time and space between us doesn’t erase the fact that she fucking ran from me after I’d taken her heart and carved my name into it. In a blink, I don’t care what the reason is, I need her dead. No person who makes me feel so out of control so fast can be allowed to live.

I like to think I’m a killer with some decorum and control.

You take that carefully constructed control away and I’m the fucking grim reaper on speed.

I snatch the arrow from her side and renew my efforts to end her as quickly as possible. Beneath the swelling and bruises, she has an innocence and a sweetness about her that has a foreign feeling coiling around my gut. I can’t demand answers when it wasn’t partof my contract. I won’t. The curiosity has me fucking unnerved and I’m starting to feel twitchy.

“Any last words?” I ask, as I usually do with each of my marks, but this time I hope like fuck she stays silent so I can kill her that much quicker. I don’t want to hear her voice. I don’t want to fall deeper out of control.

Raising the arrow, I drag the tip down her cheek, pressing just hard enough to draw the smallest bead of blood. It bubbles up so beautifully that I feel an odd compulsion to rip my mask off and lick it from her face. I shove the unwarranted thought away, collect the droplet on the tip of the arrow, and move on.Fuck,it looks even better when I smear it down across her lips. The deep crimson color against her tanned skin is exquisite, the sight of it calming my heart rate. Taming the brutal monster that is me can only be sated with ichor drawn by my hand.

I think she’s about to grant my wish and keep her full lips sealed, but then she relaxes down into the pillow, acceptance of her fate in her eyes, and the saddest smile I’ve ever seen in a human barely tugs at her lips. She closes her eyes, and the deep brown of her irises vanishes behind her lids.

The next words out of her mouth are not what I expect to hear, and for some unknown reason… I don’twantto hear them, either.

4

It’s just me in the house tonight as Santino left rather hastily and I’ve decided that this is the night of my final chapter. I’m desperate to put an end to the pain. But just before I can muster up the strength to get out of bed, my plan is interrupted.

I’m so fine-tuned to when Santino sneaks into my room to fuck me or torture me in the middle of the night that I hear the exact moment someone crosses the threshold. Someone who isn’t supposed to be here.

He’s tall, lithe, with broad shoulders. An angel of death before me—I can feel his desire to claim my mortality rolling off his body in heavy waves. And I welcome it.

Before I can blink, he straddles my body, his strong thighs keeping my hips pinned in place while he restrains my hands tightly above my head. The zip ties bite painfully into my skin, but really, I think they’re unnecessary because I’m willing to give my life freely.

I’ve barely taken a breath and already he’s poised with some sort of weapon in his hands, ready to strike. I close my eyes, even though the room is dark, and wait for the inevitable blow. Except… it doesn’t come.

His scent washes over me when he leans down to press the tip of whatever his weapon is to my skin. He smells like death and sin. The coppery scent of blood on him mixes with the faint scent of ash and bergamot. His entire being radiates with an aura like that of acunning devil ready to drag me to hell. I don’t care where I go in the afterlife. Anywhere is better than here.

He asks me questions but I suddenly can’t focus.God,his voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. I’m sick for even paying attention to something like that. He’s all grit and gravel and smoke and venom. It sounds muffled, like he’s speaking behind a mask. Alluring. Like an asp just before it strikes.

My thighs instinctively tighten, and it momentarily steals my focus from the ultimate goal here. Now seems like a really inappropriate time to be turned on by a man who intends to kill me, but when you’ve been trained to get off on pain, you tend to seek pleasure from all the darkest corners of the world.

My lack of answers only serves to piss him off. I can feel the annoyance and frustration thickening the air around us. He shuffles around me and suddenly I’m blinded by the illumination of my bedside light.

He freezes.

I freeze.

The world around us seems to pause as well.

It can’t be him.

We study each other for a long moment. I try not to flinch under the scrutiny of his familiar eyes. They’re such an icy gray, framed by dark lashes and strong, furrowed brows that I would recognize anywhere. There’s a scar that runs horizontally across his cheek and another vertically down his forehead. His inky black hair falls over his brow beneath his hood and the lower half of his face has been covered by some sort of mask.

I don’t need to see the rest of him to know that he’s just as devastating. Beautiful, even.

But his beauty stops there. There’s no emotion behind his gaze. His eyes harbor no sentiment as his dead stare roams over my face and down my chest, where I’m covered in various shades of bruises and cuts from Santino’s most recent form of brutality. My entire life, I’ve done my best to be obedient, respectful, and even kind to thosearound me, regardless of their cruelty. I’ve kept myself as small as possible to avoid being on the wrong end of a man’s wrath. But I’ve come to learn that the men of this world don’t harbor such soft emotions. The only way to escape the fist is death.

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