The guy on the slab panics. “Holy shit… Please! Oh fuck, don’t do this—”

With a groan, I hook the blade under a restraint and slice the strap. I cut the rest of the straps away before I flip the steel table over and send it and the victim crashing to the floor.

Chest heaving, I watch as he scrambles to his feet. Using the IV pole for support, he gains balance, first looking at me, then the door.

“Do it,” I dare him.

This isn’t how I operate.

Clean. Precise. Meticulous.

But when she invaded my turf, she fucked up more than just my routine.

As the guy weighs his options, he lifts the shiny silver pole to utilize as a weapon. Keeping my predator gaze on him, I roll my head along my shoulders, feeling every tense muscle lock around my vertebrae.

Blood drips down his shin, and hunger ignites.

He makes a move toward the door.

Like a feral beast scenting blood, I dart forward. He gets a few wobbly steps before he trips over the tube. I allow him to right himself and face me. He thrusts the pole, jabbing it into my stomach.

The pain hits the mark. Teeth gritted, I grind out, “Again.”

He’s shaking now, adrenaline and fear pouring off his slick body, but he comes at me like a man who wants to live. He repeatedly slams the pole against me. Striking my ribs, arms, shoulders. I take the beating. I take each blow as punishment for my failure. The pain webs my body like a fine mesh to coat the numbness.

But I still see her—feel her.

Want her.

When he goes for my face, a roar tears from the base of my chest and I latch on to him. I rip the pole from his hand and thrust his back against the wall. Shoulder braced across his chest, I stare down into his face as I drive the blade into his sternum.

Eyes flared wide, he releases a silent wail, the horror of his doom trapped in a scream that will never be free.

I lose myself to the lust. I stick the knife in his stomach and drive the tip of the blade up beneath his ribs. I stab him again. Over and over, I sink the blade deep, mutilating his core until I taste the coppery tang of his blood as it mists my face.

His gaze has long lost the flicker of life. Breaths sawing my lungs, I remove my arm and let him drop to the floor. He sprawls over the clear tarp, and I step back and watch the blood pool around his lifeless form.

All I can think about is wrapping my hand around Kyrie’s throat and shoving her to the bloody floor. My grip loosens around the hilt of the knife, and I drop to my knees as it clatters next to me.

My damn cock is rock-hard and strains painfully against my jeans. I drag the zipper down and free the thick girth from the confines of my briefs. Wrapping a blood-stained hand around the base, I hiss through clenched teeth at the erotic feel of my wet, warm palm.

I’m staring at the morbid display of death and destruction on my cold room floor, but the imagery in my head takes me to her—to where her nails dig into my hand as I choke up on her throat, her lips as pale-blue as her eyes, her tits perfect and begging me to fuck them.

“Ah…fuck.” I rub my cock, the titanium studs cool against my palm as I pass over them with each stroke.

Then Kyrie is fading, losing consciousness. Her heart rate slows, breathing shallows, until she’s completely subdued and helpless beneath me. I release her neck and move down her lax body and toe her skirt and panties past her ankles. Slipping between her thighs, I anxiously surround my mouth over her sweet pussy.

My strokes speed as I imagine lapping at her silky lips, scraping my teeth over her clit, hearing her breathy moans and feeling her undulate as her body begs for release. I’m a glutton as I tear into her tender flesh and push inside her first with my tongue, then finger, as I die to have her perfect cunt wrapped around my cock.

The throb builds in intensity until I slap the tarped concrete with my free hand, palm bracing my body as my hips thrust. Her shuttered lids twitch, and I know when I sink inside her, her eyes will open, and those soulful fucking orbs will be on me…

“Oh…goddamn. Fuck.” The orgasm takes hold, threading my spine with pinpricks of electricity as my cock pulses, and a thick ribbon of ejaculate spills free.

I pump my cock harder as the blaze engulfs my bones. I’m shaking with the release. Panting through the pleasurable shockwaves that roll through me.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

Getting to my feet, I tuck my dick into my pants and take in the demolished state of my cold room. Blood, cum, and chaos.

A fucking wreck. Just like my mind.

Before I leave the little ranch house, I set the ballcap on the entryway table, then splash the threshold with gasoline.

I close the door and walk out into the backyard, letting the contents of the gas can spill behind me. Getting Kyrie’s victim into the basement was the easy part. Once Brad left for karaoke night, I knew I had enough time to stage the scene. Making sure authorities show up before all the evidence is destroyed is the more difficult challenge.

But I play for keeps.

In one methodical move, I slide my knight into position in anticipation for the checkmate—a daring move to remove both Brad and Agent Hayes from the board.

Then I’ll claim West Paine as mine.

The queen, however, is still in possession of a very sentimental trophy. Missing the feel of my lighter in my hand, I strike the match and drop it to the trail of gasoline.

Then I watch Brad’s house go up in flames.

As I leave the scene, I send a text to Kyrie: ♟💀. Your move.

OceanofPDF.com

NINE

OceanofPDF.com

SHATTERED

OceanofPDF.com

KYRIE

“We’re at the Drunken Duck. Come for karaoke. Brad is just finishing I Kissed A Girl,” Joy says. She must be just outside the doors of the pub, because I can hear Brad belting out the lyrics without his booming, off-key enthusiasm overwhelming Joy’s voice.

“Christ, that means he’s only a few Tequilas away from Bohemian Rhapsody,” I reply.

“Exactly. And you love his rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Only because I relish the secondhand embarrassment.”

“I’m not sure if that makes you a sadist or a masochist.”

“Probably both,” I say, and Joy laughs on the other end. “But in all seriousness, I can’t leave yet.”

“Aww come on, what’s so important that you have to be at the lab at eight on a Thursday night?”

“Turds.”

Silence.

“Animal turds.”

“Kyrie—”

“No really,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just about done writing up the findings on a fecal matter analysis I spent all morning completing and if I finish now then I can take tomorrow off. I have no classes.”

“Bummer. Get it?”

I snort a laugh and Joy cackles as Brad’s song ends in the background to an uproarious cheer.

“Are you there on your own?” Joy asks.

I rise from my office chair and make my way to the shelves where my photos and accolades rest, glinting in the dim light from my desk. “No, Sorensen is here.” I pick up the Brentwood award as I glance in the direction of his lab. He’s bent over a set of skeletal remains, his back facing me. “If I wind up murdered you know where to look.”

“Oh please. As if. You should put all that dramatic diva energy to work on the stage to some Céline Dion,” Joy says as I huff a laugh. It would never cross her mind that the words I’ve just spoken could be possible, let alone likely.

“Listen, I’ll come down if I finish quickly enough. Text me when Bradley is getting close to Queen.”