Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
But Joey’s dead now, so who will care about Adam’s death?
No one. No one at all.
Joey pushed my little bird. And my rage burned red. His death came swiftly.
Dumping him on her doorstep wasn’t wise, but there’s nothing to link him back to me. And what’s the fun of having so much money and power if I can’t dispose of people exactly how I please?
In my own way, I take out the trash. First Joey. And soon, Adam will join his friend. Another two days and water deprivation will do its work. It’s torture to die this way, but it’s still too good for Adam.
He’d called my little bird a bitch. For that, I will take his tongue.
He senses my movements from a few feet away and turns his head. He’s blindfolded but attuned to my presence. His very existence depends on it.
In some ways, he’s like a submissive in a club scene. The care I take in torturing him is the same. So is the planning and clean up. My knowledge of the map of veins and blood vessels in the body comes in handy when cutting into a victim or whipping a sub.
It’s always satisfying when skills in one area extend to another. And the power rush I feel when I’m a dom or a killer is exactly the same.
So is the way the submissive or victim begs and pleads. Different levels of desperation but intoxicating all the same.
I let my footsteps fall harder on the cement floor so Adam hears my approach.
“No, please,” he whimpers. Asking for mercy he would never give to another.
I strip off my gloves, setting them aside. I’m careful not to leave DNA, even though there’s a whole arm of Roy Industries devoted to cleaning solvents that dissolve all evidence from a crime scene.
The end is coming for my victim and coming soon.
He shouldn’t have attacked my little bird. Not while I was watching. My protection extends retroactively and into the future, now and forever more.
When I own something, I like to own it completely.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back later. In the meantime, the rats will keep you company. They love the scent of fresh blood.”
He moans, but he knows better than to talk back. If the last twenty-four hours have taught him anything, it’s that.
I leave him tied to the chair.
I head to the exit and pick up my jacket. I’m already dressed in my signature tux. Not my usual attire for torturing and killing someone, but duty calls. The night is young and holds many pleasures, including the culmination of this little game I’m playing with Inara Ramos. My little bird. My cock swells in my slacks just thinking of the moment when she first lays eyes on me and knows. But I have no time to stroke one out and fantasize about it.
I have a gala to get to.
Inara
The NRPD Charity Gala is in a building called the Corinthian, a gorgeous temple of white marble built in a NeoClassical style. The taxi spits me out on the sidewalk, and I hustle up the stairs, sneaking past pockets of people lined up to take pictures on the small stretch of red carpet they’ve provided for guests to pose for the press.
A flock of birds flies overhead, covering me in their shadow. They fade into the night, making me wonder if they were real at all.
The marks on my skin burn under my coat. I don’t want to take it off and bare my arms, but I make myself hand it and my big, ugly bag over to the coat check people. Tucked at the bottom of the bag are the boots I wore to work. I leave them but take my wallet and cell in my new clutch.
I also take the satin wrap, winding it over my arms. It still bears the faint scent of jasmine.
My new shoes are fashionable but hard and uncomfortable. The high heels pitch me forward, and I let the momentum carry me into the ballroom.
Since leaving the precinct, I’ve been in a daze. I splurged on shoes and a black clutch with gold hardware to match my new dress and then a taxi ride to get me here. I spent the trip staring at my phone, researching Shibari. The further down the research hole I tumble, the more certain I am.
My mystery dom is the killer I’m searching for.
But who is he? I don’t know his name. I’ve never seen his face.
And I don’t have any proof it was him. My visions guide me, but I need hard evidence. If I bring this to Burgess or Bonds, they’ll laugh me out of a job.
And I can’t tell them about my visions or the marks on my arms that match the victims. I shudder to think of what they’d say.