Trisha Wolfe

Police and government officials have a tendency to make even a saint question their morals.

“You’re not a girl,” I say, my tone bordering on lethal. “You’re an irritating inconvenience that is begging to have her ass reddened.”
Her pupils dilate. “And don’t you just hate how much that excites you.”

The pain webs my body like a fine mesh to coat the numbness.
But I still see her—feel her.
Want her.

When it comes to Jack Sorensen, disappointment is something I’ve grown accustomed to.

Most killers don’t change their MO—but it’s not unheard of.
I never thought I’d change mine, a ruthless creature of habit.
Yet here I am, risking everything—my freedom, my life—to keep a girl safe, and thinking about how my blood blisters my veins in anticipation for our next kill.

I have killed for my mother. I’ve killed for survival, out of compulsion, to sate cravings, and even, at times, fun.
But the decisive difference is that I wouldn’t just kill for Kyrie—I would give my life. Hell, I’d even let her take it.

When I break away, I hold her gaze and whisper, “I’m keeping these.” I hold up her torn panties before I sink them back into my pocket.
“How very stalker of you,” she snarks.

“I didn’t see Hayes,” I say as Jack reaches forward to lay a hand on my arm and guide me past where he stands on the threshold. An electric hum shakes the blood in my veins at his touch, but I tamp it down beneath a devious smile. “Not to say he won’t come to peep in your windows.”
The black door closes behind me and locks. “If he does, I’ll fucking flay the skin from his face and feed it to him,” Jack says.
“And they claim romance is dead.”

His silver eyes are the polished steel of a blade. Desire. Fury. I would balance on this knife edge forever if I could.

“You are a bright and blinding light in the dark. Luminous. And I’m sorry I made you feel like anything less than that.”