Page 32 of Unholy Masks

“Fuck, Red, I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”

Her smirk was sultry. “Who said anything about you having your hands on me, pretty boy? You’ll keep your hands to yourself unless I say otherwise.”

“What if I don’t want to? What if I can’t?” I begged.

“Oh, Ryden,” she said, laughing. “You don’t have a choice. You’ll do as I say, or you’ll suffer for it.”

“Red,” I whispered, leaning closer to her. “Whatever you want. However you want me. Just… don’t ever stop.”

She grinned, her lips a whisper away from mine, her fingers trailing up my thigh, teasingly close to my erection, but never meeting it.

Her eyes were wicked as she met mine.

“Good boy. Let’s hurry up then and go see what Mason’s up to.”

9

UNLIKELY BEGINNINGS

YARA

We walked into the restaurant. Dim lights and hanging chandeliers cast a warm, golden hue over everything. The aroma of tomato, garlic, and basil filled the air, making my mouth water.

I was hungry. For food, and for the hunt.

“I needed this.”

“I know.”

It was strange how Ryden knew me for what I was, and stranger still to know that he’d never judge me for it.

He was right—I had been so tense, so out of control the past few days, and if I didn’t channel it, release this pent-up anger and frustration, it was not good for any of us. I had to feel like I was in control of my own life. Killing would do that. Killing always helped.

The moment I started planning a story, I was in control again. Fully. Completely. I had never felt uncertainty in those moments. I had never hesitated, never questioned my choices, my morals, or had any doubts. My hands never shook, my mind never betrayed me.

The chaos of the world would narrow into a single point, and I would be its master. I would be invincible. Every decision was mine, every move was precise, and every outcome would be as I wanted.

I was the one writing the stories.

“This will be fun,” I said, walking into the restaurant.

Ryden’s hand lingered on my ass as he guided me to the table.

“Did I not tell you to keep your hands to yourself, Turtle Mocha?”

He grunted, but took his hand off. Excitement rushed through me, both from the knowledge of a new prey and from imagining what came after the stalking. Ryden, bound and helpless… Ryden, just the way I wanted.

I slid into the chair, my eyes taking a quick look around.

“Mason’s here,” Ryden murmured, tilting his chin ever so slightly toward the right. “That’s him. In the blue sweatshirt.”

I opened the menu with a hum. “Nothing is as romantic as stalking a serial killer,” I said, leaning closer to Ryden before taking a look at the table. Mason was alone, a glass of red wine in front of him, and his eyes were whirling around, as if he was looking for something, someone.

“The bastard looks quite harmless.”

“You look quite harmless. But looks can be deceiving.”

“Touché. So, how did you find Mason?” I asked. “When did you?”