Page 84 of The Hunted
Silva felt raw, like she had a pound of flesh stripped from her body. Instead of feeling the cool salve to ease the ache, it felt like someone had poured salt on the open wound. She tried to search for something—anything—in her mind to hold on to and steady her, but it was deceptively quiet, considering none of her usual walls were up.
Her mind was a blank canvas, a low static at the end of a favorite movie where there was nothing else to do but feel.
“I got you,” Santino murmured, pulling her back to his front.
She was engulfed in a soft blanket. His hands soothing over her body as he continued to whisper words of what sounded like praise. She cried harder.
Something prickled in the recesses of her mind. A memory she thought she had forgotten slipped through her mind with ease. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and tried to bury herself further into Santino’s embrace. She wouldn’t let her past taunt her now and ruin another person for her.
“It’s okay, Silva.” Santino rocked her as he hummed some tune that felt comforting and familiar. She used that sound to slow her breathing and drift off into what she hoped was a peaceful slumber.
ChapterThirty-Three
The Reaper stood in their workshop. They touched their wood table, wishing there was a body strapped to it. They were itching to hear the screams of their victims. It had been too long since they killed for the pleasure, and not for a game they started, to lure Santino Alvarez out of hiding. But even that had to be put on pause because there was a new killer among them.
They remembered the look of annoyance and confusion on Santino’s face when they watched him discover the body at the coffee shop. There wasn’t a single shred of pride or arrogance coming off him. He wouldn’t have been bold enough to leave the body there like that. Yes, he did stage Denise Miller’s body, but that was part of the game. A‘see I can do it too’tactic that still held a semi-balance of privacy.
No, this new killer was either an idiot, and new, or was eager to play with them. Which would cause too many problems the Reaper wasn’t sure they’d be able to fix or deal with before they got what they wanted out of Santino.
“Who are you and what is that you want, Coffee Shop Killer?” The Reaper scoffed, walking around the wood table. Why couldn’t the media come up with something cleverer? Coffee Shop Killer. That was so on the nose, and so was their moniker for them: the Poet.
The Reaper was a good name, as was the Midnight Strangler. There was something final about both their names. It amused the Reaper how connected they were. They had found an outlet for their experiences, and the media gave them names close to each other.
“How haven’t you figured this out yet, Santino?” The Reaper chuckled, putting their gloved hands on the table. They were never more settled than when they were standing here, carving into human flesh. Their mind was quiet long enough not to relive a past that never seemed to leave them no matter how many times they purged.
This was also where they did their best thinking.
When answers evaded them, this table had given them what they sought.
But they were drawing a blank now.
Unknowns were a part of the occupation. Times changed. Things evolved, and while that wasn’t something they could control, they were still able to anticipate the shift in society enough to adapt. Finding out another killer was among them didn’t sit well for the Reaper. There was no way they could all co-exist. One would have to come out on top. That had always been the Reaper’s end game:
Survival.
And they hadn’t gotten this far by being reckless.
The Reaper turned and reached for their keys. It was time to hunt, not for a new victim but for information. They could always get the right person to talk. Maybe they’d have a clue who this new player was so they could deal with them by force or with a little tip-off to the local authorities.
“Stop smiling, you’re creeping me out.” Martin chuckled, holding the punching bag for Santino while he took a few practice swings.
They were back at the gym, Silva’s gym, taking a much-needed break. Santino couldn’t stop smiling because his mind and cock were eager to remind him about what happened in that too-small shower and locker room.
And everything that happened after.
He could still taste her, feel her nails digging into his skin while she welcomed him into her body. The fact that she liked things a little darker than anyone he’s ever been with only seemed to add to his desire for her.
He could keep her.
He was sure of it.
And not because she was just a means to an end.
The thought gave him pause. He initially kept engaging with her because she was entertaining and challenging in a way he enjoyed. She was pretty to look at. The part of him he had to feed wanted her on his table. His logic had won out. He knew he couldn’t go long without someone pointing out that he was a loner, and given Amra’s vendetta against him, it made sense to find someone he could settle down with enough to look like a functioning human.
But somewhere along the way it had stopped being about that. Even now, he was eager to talk to her and wanted to be near her both for her mind and body. It was dangerous to show so much affection for her, especially with the Reaper watching, and now with this new killer on the loose. But he could protect her. He wanted her to know she was safe—well, safer—with him. He still had to check in with himself. He had to make sure his need for her never tipped over to his need to see the light drain from her eyes.
“You gonna work out or reminisce?” Martin chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. I am both disgusted by it and impressed.” He came around the bag and crossed his arms over his chest. “Silva, right?”
