Chapter Eight

“Shhh, you of all people know my penchant for depravity. I wonder, my dear Melanie, do you think I was born like this?” The smirk on Charles’ face made it clear he was having fun playing with his favorite toy.

She could only nod her head and mumble an unintelligible response. Her hands were tied above her head and the gag in her mouth was far too tight to allow her to make any sounds other than animalistic moans and groans.

“It must have been such a surprise when I captured you and showed you that the same deviant nature resided within you. I’ll never forget how horrified you looked when I showed you the evidence of your desire for me, glistening there on my finger. Just like now.” He slid his fingertip through her slick folds and held his finger up to demonstrate his point. “After me, there was no one else. Isn’t that right?” he asked as he twirled the knife effortlessly between his fingers, then lowered it to the apex of her thighs.

Another frantic nod. She shivered as he ran the tip of the sharpened knife over her porcelain skin of her inner thigh. “You still fucking love it so much, don’t you? Now, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Don’t move, no matter how good it feels. We both know I keep my knives razor sharp. And your skin is so very, very soft.”

His cock was almost painfully swollen and rigid from seeing the sharp edge of fear in her eyes. He fed off that fear and so did she, devouring the aphrodisiac effects of it like a delicacy. They were each other’s escape from the wickedness and brutality of the twisted world they had created together.

He tossed the knife onto the bedside table, folded her legs back, and rammed his cock home in a single, commanding thrust. Her eyelids fluttered in pleasure as he nearly split her in two with the force of his possession. If she could let him climb deep inside her and take over every cell in her body, she would. Even after so many years together, she craved him and couldn’t get enough of him. Truth be told, they couldn’t get enough of each other.

His thrusts became more urgent until she could no longer resist the relentless coiling that tightened her lower abdomen. With a ragged cry of pleasure she came, pumping her hips hard against his as the climax rolled through her body. The two lovers locked eyes. His movements became erratic as his neck flushed and his jaw clenched in anticipation of that final, lunging thrust. With a snarl that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he went rigid and poured himself deep within her.

They collapsed into each other’s arms. He reached up and easily released her wrists from the restraints and removed the gag as he kissed her lips.

‘I’ll never tire of having you under my control,” he murmured as he ran his hand over her flat stomach and slid his fingertips through her folds, gathering his semen from her inner thighs. Some he pushed back inside her where it belonged, and the rest he massaged into her skin, marking her with the very essence of himself.

“And I’ll never tire of being under your control, my love.”

“I hate to change the subject, but what’s your take on this killer?” he asked on a deep exhale, lazily lifting his head and looking at her through hooded eyes.

“Charles, we could know the man and not even realize it. It’s obvious he’s into kink. He could be mixing with the fetish community and no one would have any idea. It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal has used kink to find victims. It’s the perfect venue for finding someone who’s looking for adventure and the chance to take risks. You have to admit, it draws its share of weirdos too. Criminals see it as a way to pick up novices. You’re talking about websites that promote submission. A psychopath can easily find some naïve creature and use her submission as an excuse for abuse, and then convince her that it’s just part of the lifestyle.”

“Maybe we should go to some kink events ourselves and scout them out. See if anybody there raises any red flags.”

“We haven’t discussed contacting Agent Turner.” Agent David Turner was an FBI agent who walked a fine line between upholding the law and understanding the vigilantes’ killing sprees. Black Rose had been surprised when the FBI agent had seemed to be turning a blind eye a few years back. He had been able to see a difference in the agent over the years. Perhaps years of bureaucratic bullshit had taken their toll on him. Turner had started out following every rule, only to find that when he needed support the only person there for him had been his longtime partner and lover, Rene.

“I worry about that, Charles. The bond you and Turner share is odd. I just don’t know which way he would go if push came to shove. You can’t take years of training and act as if they don’t exist. I think there’s a part of him that wants to see serial killers off the streets at any cost. If he blatantly knew we killed someone I wouldn’t trust him to hide it for us. Once a cop, always a cop. I won’t risk losing you. There’s an event at one of the gay bars downtown tonight. I think we should check that out and deal with this on our own if at all possible.”

“Okay.” He leaned over, gripping her arm. His eyes were intense and seemed to bore right through her. “I don’t want you out of my sight. Do you understand me?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m going to be sitting right there, being deliciously entertained.”

“Ah, I forgot about your love for the drag queens.”

“Hey, if it hadn’t been for the girls I wouldn’t have had babysitters as a kid. You know I love my drag queens and it’s been forever since I’ve seen the Queen Bee.”

“Well, a date it is then, my love. Sleep now. I’ll wake you in plenty of time to get ready.” He kissed her on the forehead, grateful for another day with the love of his life.

As he listened to her steady breathing next to him, he contemplated what lay ahead. Each serial killer had their own signature; a unique way to alert the public to their conquests. They needed an identity to set them apart from all those who had gone before them or would come after them. They usually had quite an ego, carrying a sense of pride in the minute details of their killings. For Charles Wentworth and his wife Melanie, that arrogance could be just the thing to cause the Mummy Man to make a mistake. He was leaving a trail of clues for them without even realizing it.