Page 8 of The Collector
He hoisted her limp body effortlessly, and for a fleeting moment, hope sparked in her mind—maybe he would place her in her car and leave. The thought was interrupted as headlights from a speeding vehicle on the opposite side of the freeway briefly illuminated them, casting a harsh light on them before vanishing into the night.
"Shit… we are going to have to end our playtime sooner than I expected. And I had so many plans for you, princess. Too bad, really, we could have created such beautiful art together."
He squatted down on top of her and sat on her legs, pinning them in place. The weight crushed her to the ground. Blackness ebbed at the edge of her vision as he raised his gloved hands above his head and began stabbing her repeatedly in the chest with the same tire iron he'd used to open her door.
Her chest heaved as she gargled, her airway filling with blood. The man's stabs moved lower to her pelvic area, ripping through her with precision and force, taking away her will to fight.
Her consciousness began to drift in a haze of confusion, becoming a tenuous thread tethering her to the world around her. One she tried desperately to grasp.
Am I still alive?
The thought echoed faintly in the corners of her mind; it was a question she could no longer answer. As weightlessness enveloped her, the feeling of sinking into the depths of an endless ocean, where sensation and awareness were indistinguishable, consumed her consciousness.
A flicker of memory stirred within her—a gentle hand smoothing her hair, the soft murmur of her mother's voice reassured her in the dark. Yet even that seemed distant, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.
Mama, I love you.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Time seemed to stretch and contract in a nonsensical rhythm. Her breath, or what she believed might be her breath, filled that void. She searched for the pain, for proof of her body's defiance to give up, but there was nothing. No sharpness, no ache—only a profound emptiness within her that mirrored the depths of her mind's wandering. She wondered if she was in oblivion or a fragile moment between life and whatever lay beyond? She no longer knew.
The light in her eyes faded in a quiet surrender, leaving her body a shell of its former self.
The Collector's fury pulsed through him, hot and relentless. Her death came too soon. It was too clean. His fists were clenched, knuckles white with frustration. Emotions churned inside him—a hurricane barely held at bay.
As he stared at her broken body, conflict etched deep into his features. Time, like death, pressed forward—merciless, unyielding.
There'd be no keepsake tonight.
He exhaled sharply, the weight of what he couldn't take settling like stone in his chest.
Death hung heavy in the air, mocking him with its cruel timing. He'd wanted so much more. To feel like her father had paid. To create art with her. But now the canvas was gone. And all that remained was the echo of what could've been.
With one last glance, he turned away from the broken girl who symbolized the end of another chapter of his life. Already, his mind pulled at new threads in the tapestry of destruction he had long ago begun to weave.
New victims, new trophies. The hunger never faded. It only slept.
Death might have stolen this moment, but the war he waged with it was far from over. There were scores to settle. Souls to break. More skins to take before he became the man he was born to be.
The Capo of the Kings.
Every last person who made him into the monster he was now would pay.
Chapter 3
Mynx
Another day, another dollar, Mynx Cooper thought as she exited the club, the heavy door closing with a loud thud behind her. She'd never been so ready for a day to be over. The music from the DJ's booth was now just a repetitive thumping in the background, matching the pounding in her head. It was still an hour until closing, and the club was at maximum capacity and still in full swing behind it.
If she'd had to endure one more person trying to touch her tonight, she would have completely lost her cool. The strap of her bag dug into her shoulder as she adjusted it, her feet aching with every step on the unforgiving concrete. She shifted her weight, searching for even a moment's relief, but the pain lingered—an unwelcome reminder of the long hours she'd just worked. Sweat coated her skin in a sticky film from the exertion of her last private dance. This job always left her feeling grimy; her discomfort clung to her like an unwelcome second skin.
Cover Girls was pristine. Its polished surfaces and gleaming lights contrasted sharply with the patrons that constantly filledit. It wasn't the environment that made her feel unclean—it was the people. The club's supposed rule of "look but don't touch" felt more like a suggestion than an actual concept, enforced only if the bouncers were alerted. And with just two bouncers for twenty dancers, the odds were rarely in her favor. She learned quickly to save the muscle for the monsters.
Everyone else? She smiled, swallowed the bile, and kept the money flowing.
When she arrived at work for the day shift this morning, FBI profilers had been sitting at the bar talking to Jimmy. She'd sipped her coffee at the bar, watching them talk. The agents stuck out like a sore thumb in the club. After he escorted them out, Jimmy stopped to let her know they would have a pre-shift meeting to discuss tighter club security for the dancers.
She turned slightly, glancing back to ensure the bouncer, Evan, was following her. His presence offered her a small reassurance of safety as she made her way to the car. The thin, tattooed man nodded in acknowledgment at her glance, his casual stride keeping pace a few steps behind. Mynx'd seen worse, but not by much. His sagging pants. That tank top under his button-up looked like it had survived a grease fire. And the damn toothpick—twirling like it made him look good. Then came the tongue flick.
Yeah, he was definitely a snake in the grass—the kind of man who'd call himself 'a good guy' while texting three women at once.
