Megan sits in silence the first four hundred miles. That’s not surprising considering she’s mute. But she’s not communicating in a nonverbal way either. She’s mad at me. I can’t fathom why? I’m traveling over twelve hundred miles to take her to the man she is obsessed with. I even made her presentable for him with fruity shampoo and a glistening snatch. She should be thanking me.

Megan is an attractive woman, but it’s obvious she was raised by a man. She doesn’t have a clue about seduction or how to make herself sexually appealing to the male eye. I guess that’s why she is so naïve? No one has ever paid her any attention. She wouldn’t have an issue if she removed the psycho from her eyes and switched up her wardrobe occasionally.

Outside of her clothes. . . fuck. I don’t have any words. I rarely use the term beautiful, but I would for Megan’s body. I can still smell her seductive scent on my fingers. That’s why I’ve been scrubbing my stubble so rampantly the past several hours. I want her scent embedded in my skin so deeply, it will have no chance of being removed.

I grip my steering wheel tightly, annoyed at my train of thought. This isn’t the first fucked-up one I’ve had today. It’s not even the second. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It’s been years since I’ve had a cunt presented before me like that, but even then, none smelled as amazing as Megan’s. It was a little musky with a hint of spice. I’m certain it will taste as good as it looks and smells.

The restraint it took not to carve my name into her bare snatch was one of the biggest battles I’ve undertaken. I didn’t just want to warn other men to back the fuck away. I was aspiring to discover if her blood smelled as erotic as her cunt. I should have done it. I should scare her to within an inch of her life, then maybe she’ll stop peering at me from beneath lowered lashes.

Although, being denied her sneaky glances may agitate me more. I like her eyes on me and the way her teeth rake her lip when she peers at me like I’m a god. I can see she is confused, but for the most part, she’s eager to submit.

I think.

I honestly don’t know. This chick is messing with my head, fucking me over better than any medication I’ve swallowed. I’m getting edgy, which is bad. Bad shit happens when I let my brain run wild. That’s how I got in this situation to begin with. I was so mesmerized watching the life in Cleo’s eyes drain when I took care of her bastard child, I let my game plan get away from me.

First Richard fucked everything up by choosing Cleo’s life over his own. Then the undercover agent guarding Cleo’s house was a tank that refused to go down. You’d think six bullets would have stopped him sounding the alarm, but no, that fucker didn’t stay down even while carrying multiple bullet wounds. Next time I’ll aim for the wrinkled skin between his brow instead of watching his blood ooze from his stomach and spleen.

Megan’s eyes dart to mine when I abruptly yank my GTO down a dusty driveway. The hotel parking lot I’m pulling into is the standard two-star joint you find on every highway between New York and Florida. It is dingy and cheap, making it the perfect location for me to realign the pieces of my chessboard. If I don’t center myself, I’m going to do something I regret.

Revenge should be on the forefront of my mind, not wondering how loud Megan screams in ecstasy. The only good thing that has come from Megan’s attention is how occupied she is keeping my mind. I can even say Marcus’s name without my blood boiling. It still simmers, but it’s nothing compared to the usual fury I feel.

What the fuck is this woman doing to me?

Maybe it is the drugs Lee gave me? He did hit me with a three-month supply in one night. Maybe I’m still tripping? It’s unlikely, but I’m open to any possibilities, no matter how fucking whacked they are.

I need to get my dick sucked. That will clear up my confusion.

The stitches in my back niggle when I clamber out of my car at the front of the motel’s 24/7 lobby. Megan remains seated, following the routine I enforced each time I stopped to pump gas or take a leak. The only time her ass lifted from its spot was when she used the bathroom one hundred miles into our trip. I made her pee in the bush. Not just because I’m an ass who was pissed she cracked my new phone, but because she has a highly recognizable face. It has occupied my dreams numerous times the past six weeks, and I’ve only ever seen her as a pawn to be used and discarded, so who’s to say some random won’t recall it? It has been flashing across news bulletins every hour on the dot for the past twelve hours.

Before throwing open the warped door, I lower a cap over my eyes. I can alter my face with a few days of stubble and a change in glare, but nothing can modify the scar above my left brow. I got it when my mother tried to drown me in the tub within hours of my birth. When my father wrenched me out of her arms to resuscitate me, my head smacked into the vanity.

The scar bothered me when I was a kid—more how I got it than its lightning strike design—but as I got older, my opinion of it changed. It reminds me why I am the man I am. It stops me from being weak and makes me strong. It is a constant reminder on how gods prosper and cowards cower.

That’s why I’m still breathing and my mother isn’t.

Old gospel music crackles over a radio in sync with my wingtip boots when I cross the tiled floor of the lobby. For how rundown this motel is outside, its insides are on the opposite end of the spectrum. The white tiles are so gleaming, I see my lips move when I throw two Benjamin Franklins onto the counter and say, “Twin for the night.”

My tone alone reveals I have no intention of signing the guest registrar, but in case it doesn’t, I add another two hundred dollar bills to the stack.

“Are you sure you want a twin? She’s mighty fine-looking,” replies a voice with a deep southern twang. “If you don’t want her warming your sheets, perhaps you should send her my way. I won’t even wash the sheets when she bleeds out. The scent of her blood will give me many peaceful nights.”

I raise my eyes, bringing them level with the man standing behind the counter. He presents as a typical hotel clerk—rounded stomach and all—but the evil in his eyes exposes his true self. He is the vicar to the devil. A founding member of my father’s club.

“Joseph.” I lower my tone, playing the game as I’ve been taught.

Joseph, a man in his mid-sixties with a crooked smile and greasy hair, doesn’t return my greeting. He is too busy drinking in every visible inch of Megan to formally invite me onto his playground.

Joseph isn’t called The Vicar for no reason. He was a priest before his love of hunting altered his perspective on good and evil. A lesser man would assume his oily hair is because he isn’t taking care of himself. I know better. It isn’t grease; it is sweat from his ogling of Megan. She is exactly his type: shy, demure, on the verge of pure.

“She’s still in training.” I take a step to my left, blocking Megan from Joseph’s hopeful eyes. “You should have seen her when I caught her: malnourished and weak. In a few weeks, she’ll be good game. Perhaps then we can exchange digits?”

Joseph’s lips purse before he nods. He’s what the others like to call a “capture and release” hunter. He doesn’t release his victims once the game is finalized, though. He takes them back to his dungeon, repairs their injuries and releases them before once again capturing them. His variation in rules means his kill count is poultry compared to my father’s. At last calculation, he was only sitting at fourteen victims.

Annoyed I’ve removed Megan from his radar, Joseph lifts his deadly black eyes to mine. “Bring her in; give her something to eat. That will get her energy levels up.”

I nod at his suggestion. I don’t have any other choice. It is either accept his invitation or blow my cover that Megan isn’t my target. If I announce she isn’t mine, Joseph will claim her as his in less than a nanosecond. I don’t know why, but that bothers the fuck out of me. Megan isn’t mine, which I don’t mind, but she isn’t Joseph’s either, which I find greatly pleasing.

“She will eat with us, but she will not thank you for the meal.”

Joseph’s eyes snap to mine, the violence in them picking up. “She’s not doing it to be rude. She’s been summoned to silence as penance for an earlier wrongdoing.” Because not all my reply is a lie, it presents as honest.

Joseph quivers, news of Megan’s muteness enticing an unusual response from his body. “Come, bring her in. We will have Scarlett serve us.” He slides a hotel key across the counter. “She is also in training. Perhaps you can take her for a spin after we eat?” His eyes expose a question his mouth failed to produce: Then perhaps you’ll consider sharing your new toy?

His unspoken words have more impact than his spoken ones. It frees the chaos from my mind, finally allowing me to see things clearly. Megan isn’t my pawn. She is a toy, a new plaything for me to explore. She’s not like the dolls I usually play with. She’s more feisty—more real. She challenges me. Just the way she snuck the blade into her pocket earlier today proves this. She will be a fun way to occupy my mind until the real game begins.

“Yes?” Joseph verifies, interrupting me from my delicious thoughts.

Smiling to hide my sneer, I confirm, “Yes.”

Mistaking my validation as agreement with his unspoken question, Joseph’s eyes light up.

It is foolish move on his behalf, one I plan to exploit.

Unknowingly, Megan plays the part of a captive well. She bows her head when Joseph’s slave serves her food and waits to eat until she is instructed. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she has been enslaved before. She is nearly a spitting image of Scarlett: same light brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and sultry figure. The only difference is she sits at Joseph’s side instead of at his feet as Joseph commands of Scarlett.

Scarlett must be a few years into Joseph’s game, as she doesn’t flinch at his sharp tone or cower when he raises his hand in anger. Megan is on the other end of the spectrum. She spends more time silently begging to be excused than she consuming nutrients. She looks uncomfortable, as if the razor in her pocket is weighing down her morals.

I really wish she would express herself freely. Joseph may be an acquaintance of my father’s, but I don’t owe him anything. If Megan wants to slit his throat because he inappropriately grabs her every time he thinks I’m not looking, she can. I won’t hold it against her.

Joseph, on the other hand. . . he needs to be reminded of the rules. Whether it is true or not, as far as anyone is concerned, Megan is mine, so Joseph has no right to touch her. Especially not directly in front of me. I don’t know if he is aware of my recent incarceration, or he has forgotten who raised me, but his insolence cannot go unnoticed for a second longer.

After placing an empty glass of red wine on the cozy four-seater dining table Scarlett set up for our impromptu gettogether, I tap a napkin at the Bolognese sauce in the corner of my mouth. The instant the stained napkin lands on my half-consumed meal, announcing I’m finished, Megan’s eyes lift to mine, her plea more apparent than ever.

I suck in a deep breath, relishing the panic rising off her before asking, “Are you ready to call it a night?”

She nods before half the words leave my mouth. I’d scold her impatience if I didn’t find it endearing. Her eyes have never been so wide, her scent more provocative. Precum has seeped into my jeans many times tonight from the frightened lamb look she’s given me. There’s just one difference between her scared expression and the dolls I generally play with. She doesn’t want Prince Charming to ride in on a white horse and save her. She wants an imp on a stallion, a monster who will slay the dragon before drinking its blood. She wants a massacre, and that is precisely what I will give her.

“Go with Scarlett and grab your coat.” My voice is husky with need, raw with desire.

Megan peers up at me, wordlessly announcing she didn’t arrive with a jacket. I shouldn’t love how easily I can read her, but I do.

“Go grab my coat then—”

“Scarlett, get the man his things!” Joseph roars, scaring the living hell out of Megan. She snaps to her feet in an instant, her body responding to his command before her brain can register it wasn’t directed at her.

When Megan locks her wide eyes with mine, I nudge my head to the only exit, advising Megan to go with Scarlett. She is so eager to leave, she barges past Scarlett before sprinting down the dark corridor. I wait for her pounding heart to stop ringing in my ears before swiveling my torso to face Joseph head on. His eyes are planted in the direction Megan and Scarlett just went. If his eyes held the same disdain they did every time Scarlett was in his presence, I could pretend he was eagerly awaiting her return. Unfortunately for all involved, I know what caused the crinkle to his top lip and the pungent aroma in the air. His eyes were locked on Megan’s ass.

“You like her.” I’m not asking a question. I am stating a fact. “Even though she is mine, you still want her beneath you!”

The violent roar of my words secures Joseph’s utmost attention. His pupils widen as they dart between my wildly possessive eyes and the steak knife I am clutching so firmly the spiky blade digs into my palm.

“Were you aware I could see what you were doing? Or did you not care you were disrespecting me?” Although my tone alludes to a question, Joseph doesn’t answer me. That agitates me more than anything.

“Answer me! Were you aware I could see your filthy hands touching her?!”

“Yes,” Joseph answers, his head bobbing up and down sardonically. “I knew you were watching.”

My jaw clenches so firmly, my back molars grind together. “Yet you still did it? You must have a death wish.”

Joseph smiles a slick grin, remembering me as the six-year-old who peed his pants during his first hunt instead of the man who would hang his own flesh and blood with their intestines if they dared to disobey me.

His smile sags when my steak knife plucks his Adam’s apple straight out of his throat. My stab, twist, and extract technique is precise and done without hesitation. Blood squirts from his inch-wide wound, spraying the four-course meal Scarlett prepared for us. Its coloring is a cross between the Bolognese sauce and the aromatic red wine we consumed. It is a beautiful mess—almost as intoxicating as the scent of Megan’s skin when she is scared.

Mindful Scarlett might not be as welcoming to the carnage as Megan, I hand Joseph a napkin. His wheezing breaths when he removes his hand from his blood-smeared neck to accept my gesture is liquid gold to my ears. They are whispered apologies—penances for his sins, not just for me but for Megan as well. He garbles out some words, but the gurgling of his blood in his esophagus drowns them out.

I pat him on the back three times, advising him I don’t need to hear his words to know what he is saying: I’m sorry for disrespecting you. It will never happen again.

“It won’t, will it? Not really your choice, though.”

Standing from my chair, I lower my cap over my eyes. I’m not hiding my face from surveillance devices. Joseph would have taken care of them the instant he took over the rights of this property; I’m concealing Joseph’s blood from my face. If Megan discovers I killed for her, it will even our playing field. It might possibly end our game before it truly begins. Considering my heart has never beaten in the rhythm it has tonight, that’s the last thing I want to encourage.

Scarlett’s hurried steps slow when she crosses the bridge between the dinette and the kitchen. My jacket falls from her hand when her eyes lock on Joseph’s slumped frame. He’s not dead—only halfway there. He will be soon enough; I just didn’t want to keep all the fun to myself.

After snatching my jacket from the ground, I stop to stand in front of Scarlett. Her massively dilated eyes bounce between mine when I remove her hand clamped over her mouth. Her breathing shallows when I can place my bloody steak knife into her palm.

“Do with it as you wish.” Her throat works hard to swallow as her bright eyes dim with blackness. “No matter what, he’ll die in approximately two minutes anyway. Maybe thirty seconds with how hard he is wheezing.”

Ignoring her dropped jaw and thankful eyes, I clamber onto the sidewalk in search of Megan.