Page 38 of Grave Love
“Then who cares?” he asks.
“You called me a rat,” I mutter.
“I say that in the most endearing way a predator could call their prey a rat.”
My nostrils flare, and he snickers to himself, the smug bastard. I take another sip—damn, it’s good coffee—and I put down the mug on the side table next to the control panel.
I tap my foot. Even if he brought me coffee, even if he told me there was nothing to be ashamed of with the pee and the mess of ejaculation, I don’t need to put up with this bullshit teasing.
And yet, I don’t tell him to go away. I play into his game.
“I’m not a victim if I’maskingyou to do it,” I say dryly.
“I called you ‘prey.’ You called yourself a ‘victim.’”
I scoff, fire building in my cheeks. He’s right, and it’s irritating. It’s like he wants me to know thatI’mthe one who got myself into this situation. Like he’s mocking me.
“Why are you such an asshole?” I hiss.
“We are the way we are, Ren. Of all people, you should understand that.”
“Try me.”
The retort beeps. There’s nothing I need to do right now; the alert only means that the retort has reached the desired temperature. I settle my gaze on the dials anyway, focusing on anything to avoid Blaze.
He comes up behind me and takes my mug off of the table, bringing it to his lips, drinking it like it’s his own drink. He sets it back down.
The print of his lips stains the rim of the mug. We’re sharing a drink. Saliva doesn’t stop us. Come, spit, maybe even blood aren’t real boundaries anymore. Like we’re truly connected somehow. One and the same.
Then it dawns on me: Idowant to know why he’s like this—why he has these urges to kill women. Knowing his past or his “reasons” won’t give me any clarity onmyend of the bargain. Yet my mind reasons that if I know him better, it’ll be a hell of a lot more personal than a medical practice where the physicians are required to act like their patients are zoo animals, caged and dependent.
In a way, I’m like that with Blaze. He has me locked in his trap, and I needhimto get my treat.
Using the medical spa to end my life? It’s distant. Detached.
Blaze isn’t like that.
“There’s a reason you’re—” I start, but I don’t know how else to put it while we’re at work and someone could walk in on our conversation. “There’s a reasonwhyyou’re helping me. Why you do the things you do.”
He smirks, and I roll my eyes. He loves messing with me, forcing me to refer to his murders like this. At least, the murders heclaimsto have committed. I’m still not convinced.
“Why?” I ask.
“You’re asking why I do it?”
I shrug. Neither of us wants to saythatword aloud. Not right now, anyway. He stares at me for a second, his blue eyes almost grayish-white and analytical, evaluating whether or not to give a real answer.
I’m curious, I guess. Or bored. Maybe I want to understand my killer. As if those answers will give me a clue to myself. Why I’m drawn to the other side of that darkness. A place where I don’t come out alive.
I don’t say any of that, though.
“Tell me about your first,” I say.
He peers out the window and rests his palms on the windowsill. A new group of mourners crosses the parking lot, the stream of black clothing like dark clouds rolling over the beach, warning us of an oncoming hurricane.
When I first started working at Last Spring, groups like that made me jealous. I was young when my mother died, too young to remember her funeral. And even when I was old enough to ask, my grandmother refused to share the details with me. She wouldn’t even tell me if she was cremated or buried. So I pictured her as much as I could. Tried to envision her body decaying with dignity.
Now, I’m so used to death that I hardly even notice when a funeral is going on unless I’m on my break in the garden. I’m numb to it, and everything else, really. Whenever I dofeelthings, it’s like I lose control. I drown in my own shame and anxiety.
