Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,91

hit lists.

Without me to stand in the way, they’d be turned into movies too. Butchered. Cheapened. Dumbed down for mass consumption.

“I can see it.” His breath was hot in my air. It was minty. Fresh. Why I expected it to smell like rotting corpses was beyond me.

Evil didn’t smell like evil, it smelled like Colgate and name brand fabric softener.

“You can feel it all.”

He moved the knife now. Down my collarbone, the inside of my arm. Toying with the artery.

Even if he didn’t decide to torture me first, one little nick in the right place and I was dead within minutes.

“Your future is in my hands,” he said, eyes glowing just a little. “It is addictive, I’ll admit. Having that control, to banish young women to be nothing more than names on a list. But then again, those women wouldn’t be on any lists if it weren’t for me. They are all lovely women. I am a sucker for a pretty face. I’m a hot-blooded man after all. They’re kind. Self-sufficient. But the world would never know them.” The knife moved slightly to the left. “You, on the other hand, I would take away something arguably as precious as your life, your legacy. And even I couldn’t do that. I respect you far too much for that.”

The knife dug in. Not deep. A scratch. Crimson bloomed at the tip and something resembling excitement struck within me as he pulled back. Something morbid in me was satisfied I’d become a part of this.

Yeah, I was fucked up.

The click of the handcuffs unlocking was a roar. My entire body was tense, waiting for pain, death. Not release.

I blinked rapidly.

He was already moving. The zipping of the suitcase took up all the air in the room.

He lifted it, smiling at me. “I hope that I’ve helped you. That you remember me. This. That you use it to create something beautiful.”

Then he walked out.

I didn’t chase him. Didn’t try and attack him and be the hero.

I wasn’t the hero.

Or the victim.

But not quite the monster.

My quick, and shallow breaths overtook the beating of my heart. I stayed there, lying on the lumpy bed, waiting, even though I knew he wasn’t coming back. He would not stoop so low as to cheap theatrics. If he wanted me dead, my skin would be ribbons. I’d be another name to add to a list.

I should’ve known all of this already. The very fact we were at a cheap motel said it all. Too public. Too risky. He liked to take his time with his victims. Hear them scream. No. A motel was beneath him. He would’ve considered it tacky. He had just wanted to talk to me. Help me.

That’s really what this was. One of the worst serial killers of the decade had kidnapped me because he liked me, related to me, wanted to help me.

It was then I rolled over on the bed and vomited all over the cheap duvet.

Saint arrived quickly.

I think.

I couldn’t know where he had been when I’d called. When I’d called him, I’d recounted calmly what had just happened. My tone almost matched Joe’s—the name I’d given him. Which was why I vomited again when I hung up. I did make it to the bathroom that time. Though I tried for however long I sat in the stench-filled room, I couldn’t even remember what Saint had said to me when I told him I’d been kidnapped by a serial killer. Had he asked if I was okay? I couldn’t recall.

But I was okay, wasn’t I?

Even though I hadn’t called the police, they should’ve been my first call. They would’ve been able to put up roadblocks, APBs, all that. They could very well catch him. I could save lives.

But I didn’t do any of that. Just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, waiting.

The door didn’t crash open. Saint didn’t rush through, gun drawn, eyes wild, ready to save the day. I’d told him there was nothing left to save. Because I wasn’t even good enough for a serial killer to use as a victim.

He walked in, calmly, eyes darting around the room before focusing on me. He did tuck something into his pants. Could’ve been a gun.

I wasn’t sure, since he crossed the space between us to kneel at my feet. My shoes were still off and my nail polish was chipped.

Saint laid his hands flat on my knees. I couldn’t lament over my shitty pedicure, so I