Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (10 page)

The Killer

I’m sitting at my computer, going through the contact list of the nurse who works at the hospital. I had managed to copy all her information onto a cellular seizure investigation stick when she unwittingly draped her jacket over a chair behind the nurse’s station, leaving her phone unattended in the jacket’s pocket. It’s amazing to me how trusting people are. They always make sure to have their purses with them, yet they leave their cell phones accessible to thieves, or in my case, a stalker. Don’t they realize their entire lives are on their phones? If I get your phone, you’re fucked.

Evelyn, as I have already learned, is no different than anyone else in how much of her life is stored on her cell phone, and now I have access to all her personal information. It looks like little Evelyn is completely at my mercy, and she doesn’t even know it.

I want to find out who was on the other end of that line when I overheard her talking on the phone at the hospital. Well, I guess
eavesdropped
would be a more appropriate term. I don’t like the fact that my name is floating around out there in the mind of one of her coworkers. I also don’t want to have to kill the nurse. Picking up some hooker off the street to hold hostage and kill doesn’t garner much attention in the local community, but the murder of a nurse will. Idealistically, people like to say everyone’s life matters equally, but in the real world, nobody cares about the death of a prostitute.

As far as the professionals are concerned, hookers live a high-risk lifestyle that invites trouble. On the other hand, killing a nurse is front-page news. Even as cold-blooded as I am, I can see the unfairness in the disparity, but that’s just the way it is in society. We can gloss over it all we want, but the death of a hooker goes to the back of the newspaper—if it’s mentioned at all—and the murder of a nurse is headlined. Keeping my abductions limited to street people is what has kept me under the radar. I’ll save the high profile for my television show. I love being famous, having always had the need to be the center of attention, but I damn sure don’t want to be infamous.

I pull up her call log and start scrolling through her most recent history. I see where she was talking with a coworker, but that isn’t what catches my eye. What does snag my attention is the fact that she has the web address for a very popular vigilante in her browser history. Supposedly, the man is a serial killer legend. I do believe he exists, though there is no proof of the killer’s identity. The public recognizes him, and they aren’t the only entity acknowledging him as a bona fide judge, jury, and executioner rolled into one; the media does as well. Though law enforcement tries to downplay his role, the public won’t allow him to slide into obscurity. You’d think the man was a rock star with the following he has. What connection does this nurse have to the serial killer? My guess is she’s probably just another groupie. This does add another dimension to the game.
Black Rose
isn’t someone I want as an enemy.

I punch up the website to take a look, and I’m shocked as I scroll through the posts, working from the oldest submissions forward to the present. I’m astounded to find out Evelyn, the innocent little nurse, was the fiancée to a serial killer. Her late boyfriend was none other than the necrophiliac serial killer who had terrorized the area years ago. No wonder she watches
Black Rose’s
blog. After all, he’s responsible for the death of her fiancé. I wonder if she hates the man who killed her lover. Perhaps she’s thankful instead and worships him like so many others.

As if that isn’t enough of a connection to raise my hackles, his latest post is directed specifically toward me. Looking at the screen, I read the post.

What are your thoughts about a man who takes a woman, holding her hostage, while he and three other men rape her before they throw her out like yesterday’s trash? Maybe I should reword that because, technically, the head of this little band of goons doesn’t actually rape the women; he just watches, forcing others to do what he can’t. It isn’t enough to control his victims, this guy feels the need to control the men he has doing his sick bidding.

Normally, now would be when I might ask for tips on these dirtbags, but this time, I know who I’m dealing with. I have every intention of bringing him down and taking the one thing this moron loves away from him—his sick form of control. I’m coming for him, and I’m coming for the goons who work for him. Stay tuned for all the glorious gory details of a man who is taking the law back into his own hands…

Yours truly, Black Rose

That son of a bitch is insinuating I’m impotent. Who the hell does he think he is? Any fear I had felt about pissing him off is gone. Despite my rage, I can’t help but wonder if he truly does know my identity. He’s calling me out. He’s telling me he knows who I am, and he’s coming for me. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I use a fake online identity to leave a comment.

You just cost an innocent victim her life. It’s easy to be brave when you’re safely ensconced in your home, hiding behind the safety of a computer keyboard. I’ll be thinking of you when I slash her throat and watch the light leave her eyes. It will be your taunts on my mind as I watch the life slowly leave her body. I’m watching and waiting, and you will never know where I might turn up. Until then, you can think of me when you look at this.

I feel my cock stiffen as I gaze upon the woman we spent four days torturing before killing her and throwing her out like the trash she was. Women are whores—all of them. They can all be bought for the right price. I’m only giving them what they deserve.

I’m showing them they are wrong for thinking the male gender is weak. There are still real men out there who know how to control a situation, real men like me.

In fact, I am beyond powerful. I not only control the whores I kill, but also the men I use to bring the women to me so they can meet their demise.
Black Rose
is about to learn I’m more of a man than he could ever dream of being.

Charles

I stalk my way over to my wife where she’s seated at her make-up table. When she attempts to speak, I place my finger over her lips and shake my head in denial, daring her with the intensity of my gaze to defy me.

I never break eye contact with her as I reach down to untie the sash that holds her robe closed. I push her knees apart and wedge my body between her legs. Bending down, I grip the back of her neck firmly and pull her to me until we’re nose to nose.

“I need to check my brand, and you need to be very still.”

She chews her bottom lip, nodding her head with a wary look in her eyes.

“I bet if I slip my fingers between your legs, I’ll find that you’re already wet for me.”

I speak to her as I gently remove the tape around the gauze. I make certain the pad hasn’t stuck to the wound too badly before I rip it free. My cock jumps when she screams out in pain. There, on her chest, is a perfect heart I carved with my knife. It’s fucking beautiful. She’ll have my scarred heart on her chest for life.

“Shh,” I console her. My fingers trace around the raised edges that have already begun to scar. “It’s so fucking beautiful, my love. I’m so proud of you for being my brave little canvas. I want to make you feel better.”

I bend down, widening the space between her knees, so I can taste the woman I crave every minute of every day. She groans and grabs the sides of her chair as I dip my tongue inside her opening.

“Look at me, baby. That’s a good girl.”

I look up at her through hooded eyes as I spread her open, slowly running my tongue the full length of her sweet slit. I take my time and savor her taste, making sure to lick every part of her, from the front all the way to the back. Slowly dipping in and out of her and sporadically flicking around her clit, I drive her higher and higher until her fist is clenched so tightly in my hair that it stings. I can feel her need all the way down to the roots of my hair follicles.

“You taste so fucking divine, baby girl. I want to taste you, baby, all of you. I want you to come for me.”

I pull at her clit with my lips and flick the bundle of nerves with the tip of my tongue until her body is quaking. She calls out my name as her release savagely rips through her.

I tear out of my pants and lift her up, taking her place in the chair and setting her on top of my cock.

“That’s it, baby. Ride my cock while I look at that brand I gave you.”

I’m as turned on by the heart she now permanently wears as I am by the way she’s moving up and down on my cock like she wants to become a part of me. The familiar clenching in my lower abdomen lets me know she’s taking me over the edge.

“I love you, girl. I love you so fucking much.”

I run my finger around the scar as I speak.

“You have my heart, baby. My fucked-up, dark, scarred heart belongs to you, my love. You’re the one with the power, baby—the power to break me in two.”

“I carry it with pride, husband. It’s a treasure I’ll take with me to the grave.”

I know my form of love is an obsession. I’ve always known I’m obsessed with this woman I rescued years ago. It’s at times like these, though, that I realize the truth of the matter. I know it isn’t me who rescued her; it’s her who rescued me.