Dancing with the Devil (Ravens Ruin MC 3)

When she entered this place, I’d sat and dreamed about all the things I’d find inside. I imagined the information, the secrets her belongings would reveal to me. Standing in her dismal home, I’m disappointed but struck at the same time with a revelation. This girl may not have anyone to look out for her, but whether she likes it or not, she’s now stuck with me.

I don’t question the attraction or the allure she has that no other woman has even come close to.

I see her.

I want her.

I’ll have her.

Simple.

It takes everything in me not to mark her with my own blood. The sight of her cheek, the heart I’d drawn missing, is almost enough to break a rule I may not be able to recover from. I don’t know her enough to trust leaving another heart behind. I don’t have enough power or control over this situation to leave my DNA on her silky cheek.

“Until next time, Sweetheart.”

I press my lips to her warm forehead. Unlike when I touched her at the frat house, her eyes remain closed. My time spent outside the hospital, police station, and her apartment isn’t rewarded with one last flutter of her gorgeous green eyes.

I walk away craving with needs unmet, leaving the key to her apartment on the cluttered countertop rather than returning it under the tattered welcome mat outside.

It’s hard to walk away when all I want to do is curl around her in the bed and promise to protect her. Make sure she knows she’s mine. Make her swear that I’ll be the only one to hurt her.

She’ll know this all in good time.Chapter 3Kaci

Waking up with a hangover when you didn’t have the luxury of enjoying a couple of drinks has always been the negative side effect of taking a prescription sleep aid.

The growl of my stomach chimes in with the familiar chorus of my neighbors arguing. I don’t have to look toward the single window in my tiny apartment to know that night has fallen. The drunken bickering always starts late in the evening, and by the time the sun kisses the ground, they are at each other’s throat.

“The joys of having neighbors,” I mutter to myself as I climb out of bed and head straight for the shower.

Although I scrubbed every inch of my skin before I crashed into my bed, I still feel dirty. I always feel unclean, which makes me grateful utilities are included in my rent. Nothing has changed from when I woke up yesterday, I realize as I climb out of the shower.

Swiping my hand across the frameless mirror hanging above the bathroom sink, I stare into my empty eyes. Waking up surrounded by bodies, getting interrogated by the police, it hardly even registers. It’s not a common occurrence, but the brutality of what happened in that frat house yesterday wasn’t my initiation to the darkness. Hell, it wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve seen in my life.

That’s what I mutter to myself as my eyes slam shut. Bile rises in my throat, burning a path from my stomach until, unable to hold it back any longer, I’m bending over the toilet and dry-heaving.

This is also part of my daily pattern, only today the sequence of actions doesn’t take much effort. I don’t have to concentrate or dig deep into my past. I don’t have to hyper-focus on past touches, violations, or abuses. Purging myself of the filth, both from the inside and the invisible layer that perpetually stains my skin come effortlessly today.

I smile at the mirror, ignoring the dark circles under my eyes, as I rinse my mouth. Makeup easily covers the purple proof of my restless sleep, but I don’t bother with it this evening. I have no one to impress, no trouble to find myself in tonight. There’s always some mischief to entangle myself in, but after last night, although I feel like it’s admitting defeat on some level, I need a break.

And tacos.

With wet hair and my mother’s tinny voice bouncing around in my head warning of illness, I grab my wallet and leave my apartment. A five-minute walk from my house is a little restaurant that makes the most amazing street tacos. Formerly a food truck turned success story, Tito’s Tacos has quickly become a staple in my life, and the walk in the dark over uneven sidewalks just happens to feed my hunger for danger.

“My cock gets hard every time you walk past here.”

I roll my eyes at the old bum as I pass the liquor store. He’s as familiar as the smell of pot from the alley, and the stench of burning plastic from the crack users a couple streets over. The vagrant smacks his dry lips at me, but like every other day, I just keep on going.