Page 18 of The Collector
The bulk of the money from the sale of the performers went to his father; he kept a small portion, which was divided between him and Stoker. All the revenue from the club, including food, drinks, and entertainment, went to the two as well. His father wasn't worried about chump change, as he called it.
Stopping in front of the house, Stoker put the car in park. "See you in the morning, Rave?"
"Yes, see you in the morning, are we still sparring in the gym at six?" Raven asked.
"Yeah, I'll be there, and you better bring your A game."
Raven smirked at Stoker before turning towards Mynx. "Are you ready for this?"
"Ready as I'll ever fucking be." She let out a slow, measured exhale. Her fingers tightened briefly around the door handle before she pulled it open. "Let's get this over with," she muttered, her voice firm despite the unease that flickered in her eyes.
He hated this part for her—the moment before the chaos of a new world unfolded for her. He wished he could shield her from what was coming. But it wasn't how things worked, not in his world.
Chapter 5
Collector
The tranquility of his solitude enveloped the night as the Collector sat motionless inside his car, shrouded in shadows. Behind him, the woods stirred, the gentle song of crickets tickled the night air, their song folding seamlessly into the darkness, bringing the anticipation of the moment alive. It helped ease the thrill of the upcoming kill that thrummed beneath his skin. A low flame he couldn't put out burned within him, momentarily subdued by the thrill of the hunt, but waiting to ignite.
He surveyed the darkness surrounding his sanctuary. The moment was a place where his desires could roam freely, hiding him from prying eyes. Here, there were no commands to follow, no small talk to be forced into, and no distractions to keep him from his true desires.
The paradox of the life he led—craved even— was that within it lay the promise of peace and calm but also the whisper of something more.
His eyes closed, the burning within him fighting the solitude of the night, trying to consume his restraint. He tried to think of anything that might take his mind away from the kill. It was revenge that typically occupied his thoughts.
The new girl was going to be a problem, but he would deal with that later. In this moment, he needed to satisfy his desire— his need to kill. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a better view of the club's door, and forced himself to refocus. Controlling his desire to kill grew harder each passing day he didn't satisfy it. And it had been far too long.
Hunting had always been his second-favorite pastime, not because of the hunt itself, but for what came after. It was the precursor to his next kill. Offering him clarity and control, a refuge from the relentless noise of the world.
His fingers moved lightly over the steering wheel, tapping in time with the ambient chirping of the crickets. Each tap mirrored the cadence of his thoughts. The irritation that had clung to him earlier dissolved like mist in the crisp night air, pushed away by the need he felt.
Through the cracked window, the scent of pine and moss drifted in—its fragrance was earthy and familiar. It reminded The Collector of his home at the cabin. Of the final resting place for his victims.
Almost time for you to sing for me, Sugar.
He licked his lips at the thought, imagining the taste of her fear. Those final, trembling moments she would have before death—when the body knows it can't continue to exist, when the soul begins to slip. That was what made his adrenaline spike, what set his nerve endings ablaze. It was the spark that lit the fuse, the sensation that gave him release. It wasn't her mind or her body he craved, but her death.
Those were the moments that fed him, sustained him enough to make it through every day—made his life worth living.
The Collector checked the time on the dashboard clock—3:20 a.m.
Last call passed twenty minutes ago. Any minute now, Sugar will be heading to her car.
He'd spent most of his life waiting—for something, for someone. It was a skill he'd honed with care, like a blade. He only lost patience when forced to deviate from his plans. That kind of disruption bred chaos. Messy. Ugly. Like what happened with Erica less than a week ago.
Chaos added risk. Increased the chance of being seen, remembered, and caught. His plans were precise. Surgical. Executed to a T. If something was off, he recalculated. Reformed. Molded the plan until it became something living. Breathing. Executable.
Just like his art.
Sugar was set to meet him in two hours at the DoubleTree Resort. She called to confirm on his burner less than an hour ago. She was a mediocre dancer at best. Her figure, though smooth and curved, wasn't the best on display at the club. That fact, paired with her cocaine addiction, made her an easy target to acquire. Her low earnings and drug problem made her predictable and easy to manipulate. And predictability was the first step toward total control.
He'd put his plans for vengeance at a standstill for a moment to reform them. Sugar was a necessary distraction to keep him focused.
The three-hundred-dollar price of their arranged meeting was a golden opportunity for her to feed her addiction, the reward great enough that he knew she wouldn't flake out on him, but not enough to make her question his intent. A few hours remained until the appointment; an appointment she would never actually arrive at. He watched and waited for her, ready to put his real plan into action.
The club door burst open in a flurry of noise and motion, the sudden brightness within spilling out into the dimly lit parking lot like a spotlight. Five dancers emerged together, their heels clattering loudly against the pavement, the rhythm mismatched but oddly captivating. Their laughter, sharp and crackling, broke through the quiet night, carrying the unmistakable edge of too much alcohol and fleeting revelry. It echoed off the concrete walls around them, filling the otherwise empty lot with chaotic energy.
They formed a loose circle near the entrance, their colorful outfits glinting under the flickering neon club sign. Their gestures were broad, exaggerated by the giddiness of the end of their shift.
