Jaz’s question about how many serial killers lived in my family’s estate. The answer depended on how you defined what a serial killer was, I supposed. All of my brothers had blood on their hands, some more than others. Some got a thrill out of what they did, while others simply kept their mouths shut because it was their job, their duty, what they were meant to do since they were born a Scott or adopted into the family.
When you got technical, we weren’t serial killers—although we did have one particularly high profile serial killer here now. We were simply contracted to do what we did, our patrons wealthy and usually with grudges.
Money came and money went. Corporations and ideas rose and fell constantly with the tide. What would never change was the fact that in the great wide world, someone would always want someone else dead.
Staring at Jaz, I couldn’t help but feel like she was out of place here. She didn’t belong with my bloodthirsty family, and yet here she was, eager to come here for me, to be with me.
She looked more beautiful than I remembered her being, her long black hair a bit wavy as it tumbled over her shoulders. She wore tight black leggings, along with a black and white shirt whose top few buttons were already undone, revealing her collarbone and the smooth plane of her upper chest.
I never knew how easy it could be, to lose yourself in someone else, to let the obsession take over until all you wanted to do was protect and claim. I’d never been like my brothers in that respect; they were much more bull-headed than I was when it came to thinking with what hung between their legs. Me? Before Jaz, I hardly felt anything at all.
As I watched her, those dark eyes seemed to dance. Jaz took a step toward me, a smile erupting on her pretty face, those full, luscious lips curling slowly. “I knew your family was into some shit, but not that kind of shit. I’m glad I called Jacob off—although Markus did just threaten him, and me, so if I wind up dead, it’s either your brother or whoever’s trying to pin Brittany’s murder on me.” She spoke flippantly, but I knew, deep down, she was worried.
I reached for her, my hands grazing her cheeks, my fingers finding her hair and tangling in it. The tattoos on my knuckles, hate and pain, looked so out of place as I held onto her. Like I didn’t deserve her beauty, her body, Jaz in her entirety. Like I would never be good enough to belong with her.
I’d called her to invite her here so that we could possibly, finally, cross the barrier between our bodies, but as I looked at her, as I remembered her question about the serial killers and listened to her remarks about Markus threatening her and her private investigator, I knew I had to tell her the truth.
Some of my brothers might take to lying to hide the truth from their obsessions, but I wouldn’t. I refused to. I had no idea whether this would last beyond graduation or not, but I knew I had to tell her what I’d done.
“Jaz,” I whispered her name, as always loving how it tasted on my tongue, “there’s something I have to tell you.” Sluggishly pulling away from her, I led us to my bed, and we both sat gingerly on its edge.
After a moment, Jaz asked, “What is it?” Her dark brows had come together, a sign of confusion and concern. She’d been through so much since coming to Midpark, and it looked like things weren’t about to slow down yet. I would do everything in my power to keep her safe, to keep her alive; she had my word.
“I know you might look at me differently after I tell you this,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to be so talkative. Sometimes silence was the best answer. I’d never been one of those fools who talked so much my own voice box got sore. Listening, I’d found, was so much better. “But I don’t want to hide it from you, either.”
She sat with her back rigidly straight beside me. “Okay, now you’re scaring me a little bit.”
Figuring it was best to get the topic of the conversation out in the open, I said, “It’s about Ryan.”
Jaz’s expression changed, and I knew she was smart enough to connect the dots. If Dante