Page 7 of The Wraith & Her Killer

My grim reaper picks up an arrow from my side and holds the sharpened tip to my face, cutting my skin. His pupils dilate at the sight of my blood, and the silver is nearly swallowed by black when he uses the very same blade to smear the blood across my lips.

I should be terrified, but I’m… aroused, andthatis what scares me. This man, thiskiller,has stolen my focus for a moment in time. The strange tension we’ve created pulls taut when he positions the arrow directly over my heart, before he leans close and murmurs, “Any last words?”

Hurry up? Don’t threaten me with a good time?I think, done with this strange brand of foreplay. My irritation washes away when an odd sense of gratitude and relief at the fact that in a matter of seconds I’ll be pain-free takes over. My body falls limp and I take a breath, melting into the mattress. I close my eyes and ignore the pain I feel when my lips tug into a small smile, the cut there splitting open again, and whisper, “Thank you.”

I feel my killer’s body lock up, his breath leaving him on a shudder like a huff of confusion or disbelief. I don’t have time to dissect it as I ready myself for the final strike. The tip of the arrow remains pressed to my skin, but that’s it.

“Thank you?” he parrots, his voice flat but no less lethal.

My lashes flutter and he comes into focus again. I nod. He’s doing my job for me, so why not thank him?

“Why?” Another flat question. I’m not sure if he’s genuinely curious or if it’s just a piece of the puzzle he’s trying to fit together.

“Because I’m done,” I whisper, my eyes welling with tears as the pain of the last decade throbs just beneath the surface of my skin.

My killer rolls his eyes. “Oh, stop with the fucking tears. Somebody out there put a hit out on you.Theywant youdead.Why thefuckwould you thank me for killing you?”

So this wasn’t random. Someone wanted me dead. But who? Santino? My father? The thought sends a tendril of sadness through my soul and I fight to keep the tears at bay.

“Why is it so important to you? Just get it over with and make it quick, please,” I beg, my voice breaking, but he’s right there, gripping my jaw and analyzing my every reaction to his touch.

“What’s the matter,Wraith?” he drawls, his smoky voice almost a taunt. “What’s got you so eager to die, huh? Why not fight to live?”

If he only knew.

“What’s the point in living when your soul has been shattered beyond repair? When your heart has been squeezed until it’s black and blue? Having any power and choice stripped from you until you’re nothing more than an object without a voice.” I try to speak with strength in my words, but of course, my body betrays me and I sound like nothing more than a timid little mouse.

I stare at him, watching his eyes and his brows for any trace of sympathy—not that I expect it—and my findings are as empty as his blank stare.

“Or,” he counters, cocking his head to the side as if in thought, “you can take those shards that you claim to be so broken and you can make a fucking weapon out of them.” His shoulders lift in a shrug like his words are no big deal. Like he isn’t a masked murderer offering me sage advice right before he snuffs out my light.

“I can’t live a life knowing I have no power or control over it,” I try to argue, but it’s weak at best.

I know he’s grinning like a psycho with the way his cheeks lift and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He leans down close to me again, his mask inches from my lips as he speaks.

“You talk of power and control as if they are the same thing. As if they will synonymously bring you this sense of peace. But don’t you know,Wraith,”goddamnit,I hate the way my pussy clenches when the pet name falls from his lips, “that giving up control has the ability to give you all the power you so desperately seek?”

This… stumps me. My brows knit in confusion. I can’t believe that I’m entertaining this conversation when I ask, “How?”

Another dark chuckle comes from behind my killer’s mask. “What, would you like a demonstration?”

“W-what?”

He glances around the room, then slowly nods, as if he’s come to some decision after having a one-sided conversation with himself. He surprises me, though, when he leans forward with a knife that he’s procured from somewhere, and with a flick of his wrist, my bound hands are free.

I’m yanked and pulled up until my chest comes flush with his. I want to ask him what he’s doing, but he removes himself from where he’s straddling my lap and pulls me to stand. “Wait here.Don’tfucking move,” he emphasizes.

Ah, okay?

He bends to scoop up his bag from beside the bed, and I notice a variety of weapons that send a chill up my spine before he zips the bag shut. Before he sheaths the arrow, he grips my wrist, and a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it when he uses the broad head of the arrow to slice open my palm. Blood instantly floods to the surface as he jerks my hand over the bed. He milks the cut until blood pools in my hand before he turns my wrist over and lets it spill haphazardly all over the stark white of the comforter. It’s enough blood, yet not even close to enough at the same time.

He moves and maneuvers my hand all over the bed, truly making the space look like a morbid crime scene. It’s hard to ignore the way each swipe I’m forced to make over the fabric feels like fire and needles racing across my skin. It’s also hard to ignore the way my body reacts to his touch, but I manage to keep from clenching my thighs.

This man wants me dead. I’m a means to an end for him. I don’t need to be standing here fantasizing about what particular brand of brutality he could wreak upon my body before giving me the ultimate pleasure.

My God, you’re fucking broken, Odessa.

It’s a result of what Santino has done to me. It’s the only level of affection I remember. The only one I know. He trained my body to find the pleasure in his pain and no matter how much I fight it, my traitorous body always craves more. I wish it didn’t.

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