“See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.
I cannot contain my life.”
—Sylvia Plath, Three Women
I pace into the basement and find Griff already in room three, where my tray lies prepped and waiting. He’s got our latest hit unconscious and halfway chained to the column as he works on the guy’s ankles.
I inhale the moment, letting it seep into my bloodstream as I wait for the calm to kick in.
This is it.
What I fucking needed.
My jaw ticks as uninvited images continue to devour me—Emmy’s naked body wrapped around me, her nails piercing my skin, my blood on her neck. I’m standing in front of my next kill, yet she’s still all I fucking see. A growl catches in my throat as I stare straight ahead—trying to will her taste, her body, her subtle hints of madness from my mind.
Andrew isn’t supposed to be here right now. I’m already pissed at having to move him up an entire damn month. After over a decade, I’m finally down to the last four people on my list. With the exception of Murphy, who we’ve been after for years, I need to preserve and savor them as long as I can. Because fuck if I know what I’m going to do once my list runs dry.
Raife and Griff have other plans—other lists. Enough to keep them at this for at least another decade, thanks to being dealt some shitty hands before winding up with Misha. It’s a fucking wonder the two of them never met before the studio. They’re both from the shadiest streets of New York, both survived things I never had to go through. They won’t call it rape, won’t talk about it, but that’s what it was. Griff’s abuse was from his own father before he got fed up and took to the streets; Raife never had a father, but their pasts before Misha are similar in ways only they can understand. So they have their own lists. It’s something we’ve discussed at length over the past year, along with some tempting offers they’ve made for me to join them.
But it doesn’t work that way. If the hit doesn’t have a stake in sucking my soul dry, then I gain nothing by taking their life. A random kill is useless to me.
With my hands in my pockets, I glance at the pathetic excuse before me—his balding head drooping, his scrawny frame limp. A coward who could hardly look at us when he slipped our food trays through the bars, day after day after day. Watching kids come and go, sustaining our caged lives until Katerina or Murphy decided our fates. This one, was perhaps the weakest of them all.
When Griff finishes, I tilt my chin toward him. “You staying?”
“Nah.” His lips curl. “Piece of shit’s not worth my time.”
I nod, and he paces from the room.
He’s right. It’s a shame I had to move this one up at all. My mind thinks I’m permanently blue-balled; my bones are screaming for any fucking fix I can get, and it’s a shit combination. I narrow my eyes on him, irritation coiling around my shoulders.
When Emmy walked into our meeting this morning—her long hair swaying like it remembered me, her blue eyes wide and begging me to bring out the rest of her dirty secrets—it took everything I had not to drag her back to my bed.
Fuck.
Stepping forward, I smack Andrew’s cheek a few times to wake him. He stirs, struggling to open his eyes. That won’t be an issue in a moment.
I dig my knife from my pocket and toss it beside the tray. Squinting, I step toward the table.
The hell?
The scalpel is lying halfway on the tray, half off. I’m meticulous with my equipment, and my brothers know it. They wouldn’t have touched my shit. It’s rare that I use the instruments as it is; they’re mostly here for nostalgic purposes, and the scalpel was one of Katerina’s favorite tools.
Running the backs of my fingers down my jaw, I can’t help but recall a certain mouse trying to sneak in here.
“Wha—what . . .” I glance at Andrew as he comes to. “What’s going on?”
Finally.
I move toward him, stopping inches from his face and tilting my head as I watch the fear take over. His eyes go wide, his body shaking before I even introduce myself. Funny how quickly they realize something’s wrong with this picture when they’re the ones strapped down.
“Hello, Andrew.” I slip my hands into my pockets, closing my eyes for a second as I will the calm to wash over me. Usually, the adrenaline comes first when I enter the room and see them waiting. Lately, however, adrenaline is all I fucking feel, boiling inside me and threatening to split me open. I need to jump straight to the goddamn calm. “My name is Adam, but you might remember me better as Lucas Costa.”
Confusion wrinkles his forehead. I’d usually give them a minute for the recognition to sink in, but at the moment I couldn’t give a fuck. With my veins on fire and the pressure in my head steadily increasing, I’m a bomb seconds away from imploding. He’ll put the pieces together soon enough. Whether it’s before or after the cutting begins is up to him.
I’m about to go for my knife when I stop. Glance back at the tray. Pick up the scalpel.
It’s cold, showing no signs Emmy’s warmth touched it. But I know she was here. Bringing the instrument to my nose, my chest hammers as I slowly inhale. I try to picture her petite body in my kill room, wearing her little black dress with the silver blade in her delicate palm. Fuck me if the image isn’t flawless.
After taking a deliberate step toward Andrew, he whimpers as I lift the instrument, deciding where to start.
All it needs is a little red . . .
After a scalding shower, I dress and send a quick text to Aubrey. My fingers feel stiff as I type, my back tense and straining against my shirt.
Moving Andrew up was a fucking waste.
As soon as she responds with their location, I make my way through the halls and to the spa, trying to pretend my insides aren’t burning up. I find them with one of Raife’s secretaries—Carrie? Carol? Aubrey stands in front of the girl, putting stuff on her face, while Emmy is behind her with a hairbrush.
Working my jaw, I lean back against the wall. Then I just watch her.
Raife’s secretary’s giggles grate on my eardrums as she drones on and on. Aubrey is attentive, if a little annoyed. Emmy, on the other hand, isn’t here. Her hands go through the motions, but her eyes are absent. Lost. I’ve seen that look before, when she was curled in a ball in her room.
At that time, I liked it. Now that I’ve seen, felt, her wildfire, it only aggravates me.
Because now I know she’s hiding.
“You’re needed downstairs,” I say to Aubrey.
All three of them jump, but I only really came here for one.
Surprise, mouse.
“Yes, Master.” Aubrey helps the blonde up and gestures to the door. “I’ll go now.”
After Emmy sets the brush down, she stares at me. She’s back, and her eyes are locked on mine, but something’s still off.
I think of my kill room, and my eyes narrow. “Enjoying your newfound freedom?”
Some of the fire returns as her lips tilt up. “Is that what we’re calling it? Sir.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “When you have the luxury of going on little adventures, yes.”
She swallows. Her chest rises and falls beneath her tight, little dress, and it drags my eyes downward.
I push off the wall, and she runs her tongue across her lip. Apparently that’s all it takes for my cock to stand at attention these days. Fucking great.
Gritting my teeth, I warn, “Be careful where you step, little mouse. There are some holes too deep to dig your way out of.”