Page 29 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

“You call me your kitten,” I say. “Well, you’re going to be my big bad pit bull. You’re going to protect me and anyone I feel needs protecting. The man who lives in this house is a pedophile.”

He blinks a few times, taking a slow breath as his eyes fall closed.

“You brought me here to kill him.” His voice is slightly deeper than normal, and he’s speaking slowly. Different enough that I can notice, but not so different that I feel like I’m talking to someone else.

“Did you think we were going for a joy ride?”

“I thought you were trying to get me to calm down.”

“I know well enough to know that won’t work, Atty. Now go park down the street so we can handle this asshole.”

Ten minutes later we’re walking around the back of the house, and breaking into the back door with the lock picking set Atticus had in his pocket. I don’t need him to remind me that I do as he says. I’ve never done this before and I refuse to be the reason he gets caught. So I won’t hesitate to listen.

I tied up my hair in the tightest bun I could manage, not wanting to leave behind any hair. Not that I still couldn’t, but I’m trying here. Atticus is in no mind to prepare me for this. I can only go by all the articles I’ve read and TV shows I’ve watched, hoping they’re accurate and not a bunch of bullshit. Atticus opens the door silently, and we step into a kitchen that smells of old food and grease. Atticus goes right for the knife block, pulling out the largest one there.

We’ll need to have a conversation about this after. He seems both here and not at the same time, and if I’m going to help him with this, I need to get into his head as much as I can.

He moves ahead, seemingly forgetting I’m tagging along. I keep up, following him down a hallway. He peaks into the rooms he passes but doesn’t stop for more than the amount of time it takes to do a quick sweep with his eyes. His footsteps are sure, even, and quiet as he moves.

He’s done this many times. He’s so good at it. And it’s so fucking hot.

We enter a living room with another room branched off, the door partly open and lights flashing as if the TV is on inside. He doesn’t hesitate to go that way, pushing his way into the room.

“What the—”

I don’t recognize the voice, and by the time I get into the room, Atticus already has the guy’s throat slit. Blood soaks the bed, the once white sheets splattered in red.

Atticus doesn’t stop there, though. He rears the knife back, sinking it into the man’s chest. He yanks it out, then goes back in. Over and over, he stabs the pedophile, who was lying in his bed watching Barney—naked. If there’s anything I hate in this world, it’s pedophiles. Children are innocent and deserve nothing bad that comes to them. I understand it all too well and wouldn’t wish it on a child in this world.

“Disgusting,” I say as I lean against the wall, arms crossed and watching my man go to work. He’s doing the world a service and doesn’t even realize it. I’m not sure it’ll ever really matter to him, either. Atticus doesn’t care who he kills, he just needs to do it. He needs to feed whatever darkness is inside of him. Which is why it’s a good thing he found me. We can turn his darkness into something good, even if the law doesn’t see it that way—we’ll keep the law out of it, anyway.

It’s a long time before he stops. There’s blood everywhere and I’m pretty sure he made a hole in the guy’s chest the size of a basketball. The metallic smell is something I’ll remember for years to come.

Atticus is heaving for breath when he turns to face me, knife in his hand, blood covering his face, arms, and chest.

“You’ve never looked hotter,” I say.

“You brought me here to kill him.” His tone is slightly different again. Softer. Maybe a little shocked.

“I figured it’s what you needed.”

Atticus moves toward me, a dark figure in the room. The light from the TV creates monstrous shadows on his face—but he is no monster. Not to me.

He stops inches away from me. A rush of adrenaline shoots up my spine as I realize I have nowhere to go. He has me backed against the wall. To my right is a dresser where the TV is sitting, and on my left is the other wall. Atticus stands in front of me, blocking my only means for escape, and he has an eight-inchFrench knife in his hands that I just saw slice through human flesh like warm butter.

“Is it enough yet?” I ask breathlessly as I stare into his endless blue eyes.

“Almost.”

I give him a small smile, not wanting him to see that I’m upset by his answer. I don’t understand why he won’t fuck me, why he won’t give that part of himself to me. He wants to; it’s very clear that he wants to. But this is something that tells me there is some human inside of him. That he is capable of some emotion. That there is hope for him to love me.

“There are some things I should tell you first,” he adds in his usual tone.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Thirteen

Atticus

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