Primal Pursuit

For some reason, I just couldn’t kill him, yet all I’ve dreamed about for years is making him pay for what he took from me. And if I have to fuck him to?—

Pure horror hits me.

Oh, God.

I like fucking him.

I do.

He gets me hot and bothered like no one ever has.

That, or wanting him dead gets me hot. Maybe…shit. I don’t know.

Am I that depraved?

And is that more depraved than wanting to fuck the man who murdered my family?

Maybe I’m just your average fucked up girl.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the wall, my entire body hurting in ways that feel good. And thenthere’s my bruised, injured ass where he whipped it until he drew blood. That stings, but in a good way. In a way, it reminds me of the pure adrenaline that floods my system when I’m with him.

I shift in the bed, muscles protesting, my sex aching.

I like it.

The hunt.

The chase.

Being hunted.

Being the prey.

My breath hitches in my throat, and I knock back another couple of fingers of whiskey. The burn as it hits my mouth and slides through me is like the fire of his touch. That rough-edged sweetness. Intoxicating. Only, his is dangerous, too.

Deliberately, I shift my mind back to the events from twelve years ago.

I was meant to be staying at a friend’s that night. Mom and Dad had been fighting behind closed doors for weeks, and in the days leading up to their deaths, it was worse. They never fought in front of me, but I could hear their muffled voices through my bedroom wall. I never could make out what it was they fought about. Work, maybe? I don’t know. I was a kid, and not interested. But that night I got in a fight of my own with my friend while at her house, and then took off, went back home.

I remember a storm of anger as I walked home, yet today I don’t even remember what I was angry about. The events that followed wiped away everything else of that day.

About an hour after I got home, I heard a knock on thedoor. I thought it might be Sarah’s parents, but as I walked out of my room, my mom came rushing up the stairs begging me to go hide.

An assassin who knocks.

I get up and grab my bag, pulling out my gun. “Motherfucker.” He took the clip. He pointed it at me empty.

“Asshole!” My voice is a strangled, scratchy mess, and I blame him for it even though I was the one choking myself on that collar. I was the one screaming.

I’m a freak.

I take a deep breath and rough my fingers through my hair, desperate to get control. I need to track him down. Not tonight, though. And maybe I need to make him really chase, to work himself up. I have to concentrate on the longer game. No matter what.

“And I should have stabbed him in the jugular,” I mutter.

Out of nowhere, a memory flashes inside my head, a voice that tears through years of soundproofing, one I now recognize.

This is how it’s done. You know the rules, Harry. You fucked up.