“I thought we were going for a ride. Isn’t that already done?”
“A ride needs a purpose.” I step out of the car.
She doesn’t.
So I go to her side and fling the door open.
Glyndon—innocent, sweet, and lush like her perfume—thinks she can get away by trying to glue herself to the seat.
“Come on, baby.”
She shakes her head. “What if you’re luring me to my grave? Maybe you weren’t kidding and this is exactly where you bury the bodies. Or worse, maybe a few of your underlings are waiting in the woods to gang rape me.”
“If I wanted to bury you, I would’ve killed you about an hour ago before I got beaten up for your currently absent trust. And there won’t be anyone touching you before I cover my cock with your blood.”
She purses her lips. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“Not reassuring, no. Mere statement of facts.”
“You’re so cutthroat, it’s disgusting.”
“And you’re so repetitive, it’s starting to piss me off.” I tilt my head. “Come out.”
When she hesitates, I fling her seatbelt off and grab her wrist. She tries to fight, her body going stiff, probably letting panic take control.
I drag her behind the car with ease. She’s small, I could crush her with one single hand—without full force.
Her skin appears pale blue in the darkness, like fresh corpses. If she somehow starts bleeding and the red is added to the mix, her skin will look ethereal under the moon.
The fact that I’m choosing not to act on those fantasies with this girl is a marvelous manifestation of my impulse control.
Repress, motherfucker.
“I can walk on my own.” Her voice shakes as she tries to release herself and fails miserably. Countless times.
She’s infuriating enough to keep on trying. I’ll give her that.
“You didn’t when I gave you the chance earlier, so the ball is in my court now.”
“Stop it, Killian.”
I pause at the sound of my name in her tiny little voice that’s no different from a lullaby. I don’t even like people’s voices most of the time. Some are high-pitched, others are low, and most are fucking annoying.
Hers, however, is the right amount of sweet and melodic. The right amount of softness and paralyzing terror.
I glance at her. “Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re doing.”
“Even when you’ll like what I’m doing?”
“I doubt I’ll like anything you do.”
“Sure about that?” We come to a halt near a small lake and Glyndon goes still.
Her attempts to struggle are long forgotten as she stares at the scene in front of us.
Hundreds of tiny yellow dots light up the trees and shine on the water’s surface with the efficiency of small lamps.