“You looked… lonely. Like you needed someone to make things better.”
He paused, and the ache that swept through me at the pause took away my breath. Touch me, I wanted to cry out. Don’t stop. I bit my lip hard.
“Kitten,” he said. “You might understand me, a little bit. But I didn’t need to kiss someone to make things better. I kill people to make things better. Bad people.”
He smiled and ice ran through my veins.
“And now I’m not lonely either. I have you.”
With those words, he rested my head back down onto the table and left me in the kitchen, still aching for release that he would not give me.
Gav
She was a complication, indeed. My head swam with it even though I hadn’t had a single sip of brandy that day. She kaleidoscoped my world. And I had just finished spring cleaning!
I left as soon as I found myself beginning to respond to her body. Attraction is a dangerous thing. I couldn’t risk falling for anyone, not even one with a body as lush as hers. It disappointed me that she tried to escape. She cut her body up so badly.
Not as badly as before, I thought, thinking about the small white seams along her wrists.
But no. I needed to train her to behave. Not to run away. To stay inside properly. She could be my pet, the little kitten. And once she learned to behave, then… maybe. Maybe I could chance something.
Not yet, though. I run the risk of overlooking something, like the window. There will be many ways to escape, and she would be looking for all of them. And it would be a terrible thing to have to kill her.
Ah, my kitten. Your curiosity infected me.
I’m human, certainly. I can breed with other humans, and my offspring would be human. I’m just not a person.
There’s no emotion behind anything that I do. This curiosity was a new thing.
In my line of work, I’ve seen many bodies. Fat, thin, muscled, scrawny. Many of them have scars. A seam along their stomach from a gastric bypass surgery. White marks on the knees from childhood bicycle accidents. I thought that nothing about a body could make me feel anything at all. It’s just flesh, just cells. But the scars on her wrists would not go away. When I closed my eyes, I saw them.
That night I stayed up staring at the ceiling. My finger drew a line down my wrist, tracing the path she must have carved with a knife. I shuddered.
Who could do such a horrible thing?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kat
An hour passed, maybe two, before he came back to the kitchen. I’d calmed down a bit. There was no way he would have stitched up a cut before murdering me, right? At least, that made sense in my mind. If I could keep him placated, I could figure out a way to get out, even if it took a while. Even if he did… other things to me. I shuddered at the twist of unwelcome desire that ran through me at the thought.
When he walked in with his knife gleaming, though, I couldn’t help but cringe.
“Easy, kitten,” he said. He opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of something, but I couldn’t see what it was. Oh, lord, I hoped it wasn’t human parts.
I swallowed and tried to relax. Questions. Get him comfortable.
“My name is Kat,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Your name is kitten, kitten. Why do you want to know my name?” His back was turned to me, silverware clanking against a plate.
“I want to know more about you.” I said, gulping.
He peered at me over his shoulder, his brows suspicious.
“A name means nothing. You can call me Gav.”
“Gav.” I cast around in my brain for more to keep him talking. “Is that short for Gavin?”
“Gavriel,” he said. “My parents were religious. At least, my mother was.”
He turned back around with the plate and I saw it clearly now. No human parts - a rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and some green beans. He put the plate down next to my head. I could smell the meaty scent of the chicken and it reminded me of the smell of the man he’d burned in the fireplace. My stomach wrenched and I tried not to heave.
A loud clang brought my attention back to the table next to me. He’d set the knife down right next to my cheek.
“Wha—what’s that?”
“Dinner,” Gav said. He forked a mouthful of chicken into his mouth.
“I mean the knife.”
“It’s a knife, kitten. It’s nothing. Just a prop. If I’m going to be a serial killer, I have to have a knife.” He chuckled.
“You are a serial killer. What do you mean, just a prop?”
“Just a prop. Like Chekhov’s knife.” His jaw worked, chewing the next piece of meat, and I frowned.
“You mean Chekhov’s gun.”
“Oh, no,” Gav said. “I don’t believe in guns. Here.” He put a fork of chicken under my nose. “Have something to eat.”