Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(26)

I hate him.

I push and push, waiting for his skin to break. Baulk. Anything. But nothing. He shakes me off violently and each shudder impacts his thrusts until I’m quaking, quivering, arching up to take more of the man who hurts me most. Forget hot mess—I’m a wet mess, a bloodied mess who can smell herself and is slain in a cloud of metallic perfume, yelping for mercy and please, please, please.

He snaps. Groans. Loses it.

I have nothing left to lose. I just hold on to him, a leaf sailing down to a hungry fire.

I know Aeron wouldn’t kill me. The problem is, I catch glimpses of the crimson oozing from my side, and my heartbeat hammers, and I think that if he wanted to kill me, in the heat of the moment, I might let him. God help me, the thought only makes me swell around him until the ache inside grows sweeter. Deeper. A thousand little deaths…and here comes another…

I used to be so afraid of him. But here I am, taking every last horror he’s got to give…and the person I fear most is me.

***

When I roll over in bed and hit cold space where a warm body ought to be, the alarm clock reads 5:03 a.m. The bedroom is dark, satin sheets feel strangely light across my abdomen, and then there’s pain in my side and I’m lying on the wound. Aeron’s unmistakable handiwork.

Television newscaster voices spill through the open door. The shadows are barred through my tired, matted eyelashes; I can barely make out the words.

“Blood Honey…serial killer…victim reported to be an adult female…”

Of course. Aeron’s priorities do not include keeping my pillows warm when the biggest story of the year is breaking.

Wincing, I wrap a sheet around my naked body and follow the smell of coffee through to the living area. The TV blares into the darkness, a neon spew of strobe and noise; Aeron sits on the edge of my couch in just his pants, poised as if at any moment he’ll launch himself at the screen. Our dinner plates still sit on the kitchen island, the remains of sticky ribs and noodles dried to the porcelain in congealed lumps. Normally, one of us would’ve cleaned up.

Aeron doesn’t look away from the television. He just stretches an arm out and sits back a little, making room on his lap for the lump of exhaustion that is me. I oblige him, scooping up his coffee mug as I nestle against his warm chest; he drinks it with too much cream for my liking, but I can hardly see straight and caffeine is very much required.

I pinch the hair at the nape of his neck between my thumb and finger. Give it a tug. “How long have you been watching?”

“About an hour now.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone in.”

“No point. They don’t have anything the other channels don’t have.”

I take another gulp of coffee. Wash it around my morning mouth. “What’s been released?”

He rubs a palm across my belly, the satin sheet cracking softly with static. “No ID, but the injuries are consistent with his MO. And they think she’s been there a while—maybe a week or two. They found her in a storage container downtown.”

I flinch. Jamie Perkins’s body looked bad enough after a couple hours; this poor girl must’ve been banned movie material.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“That’s what he’s written on her.” He clears his throat. Won’t look at me. “On her thigh.”

Honey, Darling, Sweetheart. “That’s an unfortunate choice,” I manage.

“They’re speculating as to whether it’ll be baby next. Whether he’ll take an actual baby.”

“Oh God.” My stomach lurches. The deep scratch across my side goes with it, stinging fiercely beneath its dressing. “Is there going to be a press conference?”

“Nine a.m. I’ll let the editors handle it, though.” There’s a faraway quality to his voice. Something detached. Could it be that the correlation between these crimes and his own proclivities is finally sinking in…?

“I thought you were taking a more hands-on approach with this story?”

“I don’t need to.” He shrugs. “Camden and co have it covered.”

Or maybe he’s just trying to hide his annoyance at being forced to rely on press conferences. He can be hard to read—deliberately so. Aeron will force people to analyze him just to buy himself some time.

“I’m going to run a bath,” I decide out loud. It will soak my dressing off, which should irritate him, but…nothing.

He just stares ahead at the television, at the endless cycle of nothing new.

“Your cell’s ringing,” he says after what feels like an hour.

Crap. So it is. And at this time of the morning, it must be important—Finn’s under strict instructions only to call me if there’s something major.

I hurry back into my room, trying not to trip over the sheet. The approaching bleat of my cell phone does nothing to balm my frayed nerves…and nor does the private number announced on the screen.

“Hello?” I croak.

“Miss Reeves?” says a deep, formal voice.

“Speaking.”

“Excellent.” A pause. “I apologize for waking you.”

“You didn’t. I’m sorry—who’s this?”

“My name is Agent Chen. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”