Page 32 of Dirty Deadly & Mine
The detectives who have been working on each one of my kills over the last ten years arrive just before the paramedics, and after the girls are taken away in ambulances, I overhear the detectives’ comments.
“I don’t know who the Crimson Angel is, but I hope we never catch her,” he sighs, and the other detective nods.
“She’s doing what we wish we could to these sick fucks. They deserve everything she gives them.”
Well shit.
Pride fills me. Which is stupid, really, but it’s still there.
Yes, I may be a killer, and a fucking good one at that, but the people I kill are the worst of the worst. They deserve death, in the most painful way.
Tonight has been fun. I feel happy.
But also, horny.
The need to share this victory with someone is almost overwhelming, and I immediately think of Asher.
Why am I thinking of Asher?
I can never tell him about this. About what I do. I certainly can’t tell him how my body reacts to it. How it sets me alight from the inside out. Like my blood is too hot, like some sort of euphoric drug is pumping through my veins.
I’msoconfused about Asher Scott. I shouldn’t want him like I do. I shouldn’t crave him.
Maybe I’m thinking about him now because I always get a little randy after a kill.
That has to be it.
Right?
When I know it’s safe to sneak away, I stick to the shadows, going the three blocks to get to my car, before driving to my private warehouse.
Barrett knows this place exists, but as far as I know, he doesn’t know where it is. No one does. It has a small apartment on the top floor, which I use to shower and clean up, and down in the basement where my endless supply of latex suits are stored, I dump the girls’ clothes, the knives, and the bloodied latex catsuit into an acid drum, before returning home.
The house is dark when I step inside. Part of me is relieved that Asher must already be in bed, given that it’s around two in the morning. Avoiding him is the best option right now. The things he said to me in the salon earlier were… a lot.
I never expected him to say those things. It makes whatever this is seem less about sex and more about… love.
Which is absurd!
Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I silently crack the fridge open and grab a bottle of water before tiptoeing to my dark bedroom. I glance up the staircase as I pass, noticing it dark up there too, and have to stop myself from going up there to check on Asher.
That’s a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
Stepping into my room, I silently click the door shut behind me, leaving the light off as I navigate the room with only the faint streetlight glowing through the window shutters to guide me.
At my bedside table, I flick on my lamp, and when I turn around, I gasp, a scream lodging in my throat at the shadowed figure sitting in the corner of my room.
“Did you have a good night?”
“Asher.” I press my hand to my chest, hoping to calm my frantic heart. “What are you doing?”
He shifts forward in the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees as he regards me.
Jesus, he’s only in a pair of boxers.
“Waiting for you.” His brows lift like it’s obvious what he’s doing.
