Page 23 of Grave Love
“You think that because you agreed to my game, you get to decide the rules?” I whisper, my words harsh on her neck. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, and I scrape my teeth against her flesh and tease her with their sharpness. “Make no mistake, little corpse. That’s all you are to me: a fucking dead girl. You’re mine; if I want to kill you right now, if I want to fuck you, if I want to leave you begging for more, than I’ll do exactly what I want.”
She bites her bottom lip, chewing on it. Her eyes dart away from me, hiding the lust glazing her expression. I suck in a breath, slowly letting her back down to her own two feet. Using my palms, I skim her shirt and smooth the wrinkles where I gripped the fabric. I take the cased syringe out of my pocket, then place it in her palms.
She blinks at the medicine. I’ve had it for a while now. It helps to avoid unnecessary accidents with your victims.
“Birth control,” I say. “In your arm. Lasts three months.”
Which will last until her birthday.
“You have birth control lying around?” she asks.
“I have a connection,” I chuckle, though I don’t give her the exact details.
Ren nods. She stares at my black shirt like it’s a dark hole, waiting to suck her inside. I pull her chin up, forcing her to acknowledge me.
“Always look at me,” I order. “I want you to know the face of the man that will kill you.”
Her chin dips in acquiescence. She doesn’twantto submit or obey me; she’s selfish too. She knows I have what she wants. A reward only I can give her.
I wink, pushing her in the direction of her car. “Go on now. I’ll call you when it’s time.”
“But you don’t—” She stops herself, glancing down at her phone, then back up to me. “Do you have my number?”
I stuff my hand in my pocket and shift the strands of her black hair between my fingers. I knew she would give in tonight. Seeing her clothes. Smelling my scent on them. All I had to do was wait.
Oh, my little corpse. I have so much more than your phone number.
“I do,” I say.
“And you’ll get me the barbiturates if it doesn’t work out?”
I laugh.Ifit doesn’t work out. I’llmakeit work out. She will too. There isn’t any need for those promised barbiturates, but to satiate her, I’ll play along. I’ll get her the drugs she craves, just like I got the birth control.
“Don’t you trust me?” I ask, my cheeks tight with sarcasm. She shakes her head, and I chuckle. “Good.” Then I forcibly turn her shoulders until she’s facing away from me. “Don’t make me tell you twice,” I warn.
She stays still for a moment, then moves forward. Inside of her car, she looks back at me. I lock eyes with her. Her days are numbered, and we’re both glad for it.
I step back inside, then sit on the trunk filled with my victims’ hair. I dial my brother.
“What?” he asks.
Brody is technically my older half-brother. He’s a physician and has access to some of the best substances that medical science can offer, especially when it comes to the products I need or the drugs my little corpse wants. We’ve never gotten along—not since our mother died—but Brody knows that I’ve got him exactly where I want him. I committed murder; he helped me cover it up. He will always be tied to me.
“I have a situation,” I say curtly. “A—” I stop. How do I describe my next victim, as willing as she may be, without upsetting someone as delicate as Brody? “Afriendof mine wants to end her life. I need barbiturates.”
He grunts, reading the subtext. “You want to use drugs and not your hands this time?”
I laugh, the condescension in my tone matching his. He’s so full of shit. He’s done the exact same thing I have with his gloriousmedicine.The only difference is that he has a guilty conscience that keeps him in check; I don’t. I don’t give a shit who lives or dies. I only care about the power killing gives me.
“I’m helping her out,” I explain. “She hates her meaningless life, so why not help her? I’m finding a way to help the public. I’m moving up in the world, just like you, big brother.”
“You’re a twisted fuck.”
“You’re not any better.”
He stays silent, angered by that comment. I smirk to myself, enjoying his disgust. Brody thinks he’s charitable because he provides pharmaceuticals to those who can’t afford the retail prices. Even when his patients pay under the table, Brody takes his cut.Profitsoff of his dying clients. They areclients,after all. Customers. Not people. He provides various drugs, even barbiturates that are hard to come by in the States. He’s even helped assist people to their ends.
The saint is as guilty as the rest of us; he just happens to be better at camouflaging it.
