“We’re out of peppermint tea.”
The feminine voice startles me, and I sit up straight, leaning back against the red vinyl booth seat. A waitress stands beside my table with her arm cocked in the air, balancing a black tray on her upturned palm.
I swallow over a lump that lodges in my throat, shoulders tensing, and search her big green eyes for signs of recognition.
She just blinks, using her free hand to push a strand of onyx hair from her face.
Blowing out a long breath, I shake my head. “Sorry?”
One brow arches. “You ordered a peppermint tea, right? Our new hire, Billie, took your order, and she didn’t realize we’re out.”
“Oh.” Toying with the silver rings on my fingers, I nod. “That’s fine. What about plain tea?”
“We have that in spades. Our elderly customers are the ones who drink it, and it takes them a full month to go through one box.”
When I don’t say anything, my gaze flickering back out the window to my left, she taps the side of her tray and smacks her lips together. “Okay, I’ll grab that and be right back.”
Again, I don’t acknowledge her, my attention long gone before she’s even stepped away from the booth. Locking on to movement across the street, I lean closer to the glass pane, surveying the strip of businesses until I find her.
She’s bundled up in a black peacoat and a thick scarf, her hair catching in the breeze and obscuring her face from view.
Smirking to myself, I touch my fingertips to my lips; even three years later, I can still feel the imprint of her mouth on mine.
Still jack myself to sleep every night to the image of her breaking apart on my tongue, crying out with no sound, as if unsure of how to welcome the pleasure.
I would’ve taught her how to accept it. Over and over, until she was a blubbering, snotty mess of frayed nerve endings and fluttering muscles.
But she hadn’t given me the chance, and now that ship has sailed.
The only thing I’m here to do is expose her as the snake she is, drag her back to the land of the living where the truth can eat her alive.
Tracking her down was no easy feat, especially given the media’s assumption that I had anything to do with her supposed death.
Even though I was cleared of suspicion when her death was ruled a suicide, people still look at me like I killed her myself, which is part of the reason I’ve been searching for her all this time.
Riley Kelly has connections, and they’ve gone to great lengths to ensure she remains in hiding indefinitely.
Unfortunately for her, my obsession hasn’t lessened.
And when an artist has a muse, even if that muse is toxic and life-ruining, they don’t stop seeking them out.
Can’t stop, even when they desperately want to.
So, for three years, I’ve been looking. I’ve spent an ungodly amount of money and time, and neglected the contract with my label, in favor of scouring the earth for her.
Part of me still can’t believe I finally did.
The other part is salivating, ready to feast on her fear and make her repent for her wrongdoings.
My cock jerks behind my zipper at the thought of her pleading for mercy, even knowing she won’t get any.
Hand sliding across my mouth to my jaw, I chuckle softly, watching her tuck her hair into the collar of her coat. It’s longer now than it was that night in New York, and I can’t help wondering if it’s still as soft.
Or if she thought dyeing it that blush color would mask her identity from me.
She moves to the edge of the sidewalk, turning to scan this side of the street. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat, turning to smoke that threatens to suffocate me as those shiny blue eyes sweep past the window.
Tension threads through every muscle, wrenching so tight it makes my teeth ache, the thrill of being caught mixing with the disappointment that she doesn’t seem to notice me.
That cocktail morphs into a vicious storm, though, when her gaze finally lands, a small smile breaking out along her pretty face.
A man exits the art gallery beside Dahlia’s Diner, pausing to lock up before spinning around and heading over to her. He swings his keys around an index finger, whistling as he strides in her direction, and suddenly I’m unsure if the rosy tinge to her cheeks is from the cold temperature outside, or the dark-haired fucker invading her personal space.
Her mouth moves, mumbling something I’m too angry to register, and then he’s stepping in and pulling her into his embrace. His bronzed skin is such a deep contrast to hers, and I hate seeing the two pressed together.
Curling my hands over the edge of the wooden table, I tighten my grip, allowing the pressure to build until the surface creaks.
Thoughts of murder pulse along my spine, scratching at the bone, and I bite down against the urge to bolt out there and beat him bloody for touching what belongs to me.
But I can’t ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for, and that would certainly not go over well when I report back to Liam. He thinks this trip is my attempt at finding inspiration and completing my album for Symposium, and I don’t really want to have to explain a body count this early on.
My father, the only other person who knows I’m here—and the only one who knows why—wouldn’t mind if I got my hands dirty. In fact, he’d probably encourage it.
God knows he’s no saint.
Still, there’s only one corpse I want to deal with, and she has no fucking clue I’m here.
The waitress returns, a white ceramic mug sitting in the middle of her tray, and she sets it down in front of me. Reaching into the pocket of her little black apron, she tosses two extra Lipton tea bags on the table, then steps back, hugging the tray to her chest.
She’s a pretty girl—those gemlike green eyes set in a delicate, lightly freckled face, and the way she stares a bit too long makes me think she’s eager to please.