Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,89

besides the ink of his tattoos.

I wanted desperately for him to show me his naked self in so many aspects, least of all the bare skin of his torso and legs, but he stopped at the tee and put a shovel over his shoulder as he walked out the dimensions of the grave.

My eyes hungrily mapped his sheer power as he reared back with the shovel lifted, then stabbed it deep into the hard crust of the earth.

He worked quietly for a few minutes, seemingly unaware of my drooling and shameless ogling before he graced a hand against the shovel where it was planted in the earth and cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Witnessin’ and doin’ dark deeds are two very different things. Told you once, I’ll tell you again, if I’m a killer, you’re a killer. Not like most men in the MC, mo cuishle. I got no plans to keep secrets from you, but this is an all or nothin’, you get me?” He jerked his chin at me. “Get goin’ or go.”

Harsh, but in his own way, with his own wisdom, fair too. I fished in the overlarge pocket of my coat, pulled out a handful of Fuzzy Peaches I always kept in my pockets, and popped them into my mouth with vigor.

“Okay,” I said with a mouth full of sugar. “Move aside; a new gravedigger is in town.”

He tried to hide it, but I swore I caught a glimmer of a smile in his beard.

* * *

* * *

Apparently, Priest had many burial sites and body disposal methods. He didn’t go in-depth, explaining all the wonderful ways he covered up murder, but he grunted enough to paint a certain kind of picture. He used Evergreen Cemetery because it was at capacity and mostly forgotten save a few family crypts that still had space for more members. I was amazed to learn that up to six bodies could fit in a single grave. There was such resourcefulness in digging up someone already buried and forgotten to add more, knowing no one would ever look there again.

I lasted forty-five minutes, but it took almost two hours. It was roughly 150 square feet of dirt that needed to be dislodged, the night was cold and dark, and I was only five foot four with minimal muscle mass. My stamina was pathetic, but I was happy to sit on the flat tombstone wearing Priest’s clove-scented cut around my shoulders while I watched him sweat and heave in the dirt.

It fascinated me to watch Priest open up about his dark deeds. The entire expanse of my skin felt electrified with desire as I watched him work calmly, efficiently, and somewhat brutally to bury his sins. It was erotic as hell to watch him dig that grave, to see the sheer strength in that long, lean form, and the determination, the unwavering longevity he had. I wanted to pounce on him, to devour the grim line of his mouth and scratch at that deeply contoured back.

But there was such focus to his efficiency that I held myself in check. I’d never been a sexual aggressor. I didn’t even know how to begin, especially with a man who was mostly unmoved by normal social cues.

So, I sat mainly silent, sometimes chatting mostly to myself about how I missed Sampson and Delilah, about how I was worried about Billy Huxley and his poor family, about why Fuzzy Peaches were a good substitute to real ones in the winter when it was hard to find the fruit. Priest didn’t react, but there was a quality to him that somehow made me aware he was attentive to every word I spoke.

“Oh,” I said at one point, a short exclamation of awed joy as I tipped my head into the sky. “Priest, look! It’s snowing.”

I laughed into the dark, crowded sky as soft, sugar crystal flakes of snow melted on my forehead, in my eyelashes, on my extended hand. Then, because sitting wasn’t enough, not when it was snowing beautifully and the world was all draped in pressurized silence, waiting with bated breath to be covered in cold, I stood and spun around trying to catch flakes in my open mouth.

“It’s silly,” I called to him. “But snow tastes so sweet straight from the sky.”

A cold hand wrapped around my left hand. I startled, painfully inhaling a large gulp of cold air.

Priest stood there, eyes dark under his furrowed brows, intensity radiating off him in tangible waves. When