Page 14 of Antihero
“Soon, I think. This weekend maybe.”
“Sounds like a real boost to the economy,” I comment.
Paige laughs. “Oh yes. Probably earns more in that one night than an entire month’s worth of fish.” She toys with the stem of her wine glass, her smile falling away. "Did you hear about Declan, that security guard? He’s gone missing."
I don't react to the name, only meet her eye. "I thought maybe he'd gone away. Haven’t seen him in a week. Or more."
"Apparently his drinking buddies at the pub haven’t seen him—which is almost more notable than his wife not seeing him. Not for a week. She says he went to work and never came home."
I nod slowly. I can't imagine a man who treats women the way he did would be particularly missed by his wife. "Is it common for people to disappear? So many cliffs and sheer edges." Is that how I’m going to have to deal with her? Cast her into darkness, like I’ve done to so many killers before? I push the thought away. Information, confirmation, first. Then… then whatever comes next.
"Mm." Paige bobs her head, finishing her sip of soup. "Can't say it’suncommonfor a drunk to step off the cliff on his way home now and then. But I don't think Declan would’ve been drunk at work. There's a record of him clocking on for his night shift, but not off."
I raise an eyebrow. "He went missing from the asylum?"
"Didn't hear anything during the night, did you?" she teases.
Letting myself smile, I answer, "Afraid not. I sleep deeply once I get there." Another lie.
But she's lying to me. The sound of her moans, of her gasp in my room, sticks with me still, begging to be enjoyed before I remind myself of what they signify. Her guilt.
She’s the Wraith. I’ve proven that to myself. Therefore, I’ve proven that her interest in me can’t be genuine. She wants Needler, not me.
Not that I know who I am without him anymore.
***
Seduction wasn't typically one of the methods I used to find or catch my killers in Tregam. Like I said, I don't like fucking strangers. And if I used some level of flirting to lure someone, usually a look or an idle touch was enough.
But this isn't a typical situation, and I need her alone.
Yet as we stand in front of her door, as much as I try not to, I justneedher. We’re locked together. Her arms linked around the back of my neck. She’s up on her toes, pressing her body into mine, chasing thoughts from my brain.
Paige breaks off, smiling softly, hands braced on my shoulders, though I barely feel them through my thick jacket. Then she turns to unlock her door. "Are you sure about this?" I ask. If she knows my true identity, she must know the risk she’s taking by inviting me in. Akin to beckoning a vampire across the threshold.
The latch clicks, and she takes my hand in answer, pulling me inside.
A smouldering log left on the fire has kept the room warm. The interior is cute; one large, quaint and old-fashioned room with modern fixtures like a small TV and a glass-fronted fireplace. Besides the glowing fire, the only other light is from a lamp by the double bed, which is pressed into an alcove on the far side of the room. A couch faces the fire, and behind it, a door into the bathroom, with a two-person dining table beside it. The kitchenette is behind us to the left. Feminine touches like the frilly cushions, a fluffy rug and a few pot plants make the place not exactly reminiscent of a killer's den, but that’s hardly something to go off.
I push the door shut behind me, thumb flicking the lock closed while my body blocks Paige’s view—though she appears to be focused elsewhere.
As she comes back into my arms, my hands snake inside her jacket, around her waist. I find her mouth again, and don’t let go. We stay connected while she plucks her beanie off, shedding her scarf and sweater, stepping out of her shoes as we drift further into the room, until the fireplace warms the back of my legs. I do the same, leaving a trail of shoes and gloves.
Paige is down to a white long-sleeved undershirt now, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her not either bundled up under layers, or in the shapeless uniform of a cleaner. She's slender, a small hourglass, the same as I saw that night, clad in black. Her rich warm-blonde hair, turned orange by the firelight, tumbles nearly to her waist, dishevelled by the wind we just came out of.
She’s gorgeous, and I know this is wrong as her hands trail up my bare arms, over my shirt and up my neck, running through my hair. It feels good to be touched again, her hands delicate but firm, and to feel her warm body. So welcoming. My voluntary abstinence is suddenly not feeling so voluntary.
How far is she willing to go? I shouldn’t find out, shouldn’t go along with this farce. Letting my cock make the decisions can't be a good route to take.
But I’m angry, and I want to punish her for what she’s done. For luring me into her sphere like she was something sweet. She’s not that, and knowing that I won’t be corrupting anything spurns me. It’s licence to be rough, like even if I hate her for being the Wraith, it’s okay to fuck her too… Which isn’t the kind of thinking that’s going to help here. I need to stay on task. But reminding myself of what these hands that are now undoing my belt have done, doesn’t wipe away those traitorous thoughts.
We stumble back until her butt comes up against the arm of the couch. When she lifts her knee, my hand slips down, off the bottom hem of her skirt, finding bare skin and the lacy top of a stocking.
A low sound growls from the back of my throat as I grip that thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh. I grab her hair with my other hand and crane her head back so that I can sink my teeth against her neck until she cries out.
"John," Paige says with a sucked-in breath.
And that’s what brings me back.
