The Distance Through Twisted

By Mary Nova

Stanya Grady is a professional assassin, but she’s not the cold blooded killer her father, Grayson, trained her to be. She’s got a conscience and she’s barely holding it together with Xanax and wine.
And then she stumbles upon the pit in the woods. The pit filled with women slaughtered by a psychopath.
Face to face with the damage a killer like herself causes, Stanya spirals. While her ex-military turned mercenary father pushes her to carry on with their murder-for-hire partnership, Stanya only wants redemption. In an act of defiance, Stanya ignores her father and turns her deadly skills to the hunt for the cunning serial killer.
But in her crisis of conscience, can she really turn the tables on a vicious predator whose body count rivals her own?

An unputdownable, psycho-killer thriller

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Nova
• Release date: Apr 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215146439

Mary Nova

Welcome to Mary Nova's Author page!MARY NOVA writes in a variety of genres.Romance: The Scorched Series.Women's Lit: Polly Ticks.Fantasy: The Bag: Believe. It wants to belong to you...Mary is a native Mid-Westerner, currently ensconced in Rochester, MN. She’s a die-hard, bleed-purple Vikings fan, and spends the untenable Minnesota winters watching football and playing Texas Hold ‘em...when she’s not writing.​But what really roots Mary in Minnesota are friends, family, and lively conversations with lots of laughter and a nice glass of wine.​Mary invites you to write her at [e-mail] because it’s you, whether a one-time-reader or a superfan, who keeps her going. It also warms her frigid winters!

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

God, just look at this place! The magnificence of the view awed her. Nestled on the Cascade Mountain range, the expansive estate had a stunning view of Mount Rainier, its snowy peaks backdropped by the Caribbean-blue sky. The sublime retreat lay north of Snoqualmie Pass surrounded by millions of acres of national forest. And on this clear day, snow-frosted Mount Rainier soared above the pines that surrounded the immense yard.

Humbling, but as she gazed at its splendor, she also felt a swelling. Almost like pride. But, no, that was inappropriate. She had nothing to do with the formation of the mountains, or the forest, or the sky. Nevertheless she felt connected to it all. And as Stanya Grady stood at the entrance to the sunshine flooded solarium, staring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the connection to something this glorious swelled her with such fulfillment it was almost too much to bear.

Ignoring the young wife of the estate for the moment--as she rocked in a creaking antique chair--Stanya couldn’t tear her eyes from the view beyond the plump, flower-patterned furniture. Perfect. Beautiful. Ideal. She couldn’t have asked for a better venue. And then the beauty of the site broke Stanya’s heart. Because of the gruesome thing she was about to do here.

She turned her eyes from the landscape, denying herself the view. She was undeserving of its natural beauty when what she was here to do was so unnatural. Her eyes slid to a boarded-up glass pane above the doorknob of the outer French door. And her hands began to tremble. Her breathing became shallow as the jittering-roiling welled in her torso.

She tried a steadying breath, inhaling deeply, and her nostrils flared with the heady cinnamon-sugar scent of cookies. She glanced back to the kitchen and the huge, quartz island she’d just crept past, with Snickerdoodles overlapping in a spiral pattern on a revolving marble platter. It should’ve been comforting. And even though her mouth watered, Stanya swallowed a taste of bitter bile. She wasn’t here to nibble cookies. She was here to kill the woman who’d baked them.

Stanya fixated on the target, as yet unaware of the presence behind her. The carefree brunette’s ponytail swayed as she rocked in the creaking chair, oblivious of the fact that she had mere moments to live. But Stanya had her orders. She was to slit the paycheck’s throat. And then hack at the neck for it to appear amateurish, not a professional hit.

Hack at her neck. Stanya’s eyes squeezed shut. I’m such a shit.

The roiling intensified. Her breathing had become quick and shallow, her hands shaking. The refrain of self-condemnation didn’t help, the inner voice telling her not to do it, she couldn’t do it, shouldn’t do it. She was such a shit. Creeping around, stealing into someone’s home to steal their life. She was such a heartless shit!

Stanya wanted to turn and run. Just get the fuck out! Damn it. Damn it! Her anxiety was nearing the point of no return. But this wasn’t her call. I’m just here to do a job. She took a deep breath and exhaled; just another job. Get it done. And go home.

Home. Her chair in front of a warming fire. Wine--lots of wine. And a Xanax. All she had to do was get through this...

She shifted her perspective from the aesthetic to the practical, from mother nature’s beauty, to human nature’s brutality. She fell back on her training. Focused on tradecraft. Reviewed her previous exploration of the grounds.

Belonging to an older man and the young bride in the rocking chair, the estate was situated at the end of a long, private driveway, cutting through the tall pines, curving upward through the woodlands. In the final arc of narrow, shadowed lane, the forest opened unexpectedly to acres of velvety lawn. The large, glass and steel house sat at the back of the property, a steep hill rising behind it. And during that previous reconnaissance, Stanya had found the perfect mix of seclusion and visibility on top of that hill. She’d come down its slope in the dark of night, prowling at will. She’d caught a glimpse of the brunette paycheck in the kitchen window and had stopped to watch, feeling powerful in the dark.

She channeled that energy now. I’m powerful. I’m invincible. I’m a killer.

The childhood mantra helped. Her breathing calmed and she quickly assessed the theater of attack. Outside, the groomed lawn stretched to the edge of the forest, neither man nor beast in sight. No witnesses. Inside, sunshine flooded through the massive windows. There’d be no reflection to warn the brunette. There were no mirrors in the room either. The strips of wall between the giant windows were too narrow. The walls were simply painted white, a chair rail separating the bead-board bottom from the smooth top. As for the flowered furniture, it wouldn’t be in the way. The large solarium provided plenty of room to maneuver. She noticed a strand of silver tinsel on the floor. A remnant of the Christmas or New Year’s holiday just days ago? She grimly realized the brunette would only make it five days into the new year. Don’t think about it. Get on with it so you can go home.

There was clear access to her target, nothing between Stanya and the rocking chair. And the travertine floor wouldn’t creak upon approach. To be sure, she timed a toe-flexing with the chair’s creak. Perfect silence.

Travertine isn’t going to creak. She was aware she’d been stalling. But the tactic had worked. The roiling was at bay. She was ready.

Stanya’s hand slid to her thigh holster, stroking its length. Fixing eyes on the target, she was about to move forward when she hesitated. She didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time. She’d revealed herself too soon. And the target had run. It’d been inexcusable.

A flicker of anxiety returned. Stop it. You’re trying to fuck this up. Tucking a loosened wisp of black hair into her tight hiking beanie, she watched the oblivious target. She could do this. It was going to be easy. The subject’s head bobbed up and down, two thin wires trailing down the sides of her neck from pink earbuds, ponytail swaying to a loud, thumping beat. She was engrossed in it.

Stanya gritted her teeth at that ponytail, swinging blissfully as if nothing was wrong, the target mistakenly trusting she was safe in the confines of her home, secure in her retreat in the woods. Couldn’t she sense the danger? Why didn’t she turn around? She was just so damned naïve. Stanya wanted to snatch her ponytail, wake her up to the fact that she wasn’t safe. Not here. Not anywhere.

The target shifted and Stanya caught a whiff of her perfume. Lilac. Like the bushes at Grandma Grady’s. Her stomach churned, acidic bile burning in the back of her throat. Jesus. A lilac-scented brunette, just joyously listening to her music. How could Stanya slaughter this target? Do it quick and it won’t suffer.

Her father’s voice intruded from the past and she felt the phantom pulse of a furry heartbeat against her palm. Almond eyes, darting with terror. Shit. Shit! I can’t do this!

A sharp creak from the chair’s rocking made her flinch. And then another creak, its sound shrill, amplified. Stanya’s breathing quickened as she recognized her anxiety rushing back, roaring up from her torso, from stomach to chest. If that roiling reached her brain, it was over. She’d be in the grips of full-blown panic.

She slid her left thumb back and forth across an old frostbite scar on her forefinger, wincing at the electric tingle from the nerve endings near the scar. But she kept rubbing, the repetitive, habitual motion calming, and when she clamped her thumb onto her forefinger, the snapping shock of nerve pain anchored her.

I’m powerful. I’m invincible. I’m a killer. The mantra played in her head, taking hold. I’m powerful, I’m invincible, I’m a killer. I’mpowerful I’minvicible I’makiller.

Do it quick so it won’t suffer.

She slid her fingers through the sentry knife’s knuckle holes, gripping the hilt. Creeping forward, she eased the knife out, the eight-inch steel blade whispering out of its sheath. She inched closer...closer...just behind the paycheck whose high ponytail exposed her neck. Such a flimsy covering for so many arteries and veins. Stanya focused on the thick, blue-green tributary on the side. The carotid. So easy. One slice would open it up. This would be over in seconds.

She reminded herself to avoid Ponytail’s eyes. Avoid the horror of that look, the pain and confusion reflected there as well as the inevitable beseeching question...Why? But above all, avoid the blanketing nothingness that’d seep over the paycheck’s eyes at the end, erasing everything this woman was.

The ponytail bobbed to a new beat, the scent of her hair wafting.

Fuck. She uses the same honey shampoo as me.

Stanya shifted her focus to the target’s music. She hoped it was something beautiful, a symphonic accompaniment for her death. She strained to hear the melody. Instead, she heard clicking.

Clicking? Stanya stiffened on a spike of adrenaline.

Ponytail’s hands were out of sight near her lap. And they were clicking. Her elbows moved. Rapidly.

Out of sight, her hands made quick circular motions. Was she coiling a length of wire, a garrote? Had the target been tipped off? Warning prickles slithered up Stanya’s arms. Her grip tightened on the knife. Her ears pricked to the quick, hollow ticks.

The target stayed in the chair. Clicking.

What the hell? She held her breath, craning forward by millimeters. Forward... Forward...

And the target’s hands came into view.

When Stanya saw what the target held, she froze, eyes widening.

Knitting needles. The turquoise metal clicked hollowly as the target wove thick yellow yarn.

Stanya exhaled slowly, tension releasing. Stretching her cramped fingers through the knuckle holes of the knife, she repositioned her grip, the feel of the wicked weapon as familiar to her as the knitting needles must be to Ponytail.

Time to cash the paycheck.

She briefly squeezed her eyes against the internal plea that always came unbidden; Please forgive me. I have nothing against you. This is nothing personal. Then, banishing the unwelcome plea, Stanya’s eyes opened with a steely stare. Do it. Do it now. Slit the artery. She raised her knife. Leaned infinitesimally. And Stanya got a better view of the knitting.

The tiny yellow bootie took a moment to register.

The paycheck’s protruding belly took a moment longer. Her pink sweater was pulled up, belly buds attached to her burgeoning stomach.

Stanya froze, blade poised to slash the throat of the pregnant target.

Processing the unthinkable, she thanked Christ the woman hadn’t turned around. But what if she still did? What if the target dropped her knitting and turned around? And saw Stanya standing over her with a sentry knife? She lifted her foot to step back.

The target dropped her knitting.

Stanya stopped breathing. Don’t turn around.

The target’s hands moved to cup the belly buds. Connected to her own earbuds, mother and child shared the booming music.

Stanya’s hand shook, the knife catching a glint of sun. It jittered up the wall. She tilted her knife, the glint streaking down the wall before disappearing.

And the target cried out.

Shit! Stanya braced for discovery, but the target merely groaned, pressing the sides of her belly. A small protrusion rolled under the woman’s skin... It looked like...

...a small foot...

Stanya’s eyes stretched wide at the tiny outline meant to fill the yellow bootie.

Eyes cast down on her moving child, Ponytail lightly caressed her belly, Ooooh, nice kick there, Amy. You like this song? Ooooh. She made room for the moving child, arching backward...backward…

Stanya’s lips peeled back in a grimace as Ponytail’s arching revealed her forehead...her eyelashes, cheekbones, the tip of her nose... A bit more and Stanya would see her eyes. And those eyes would see Stanya.

She leaned back, feet remaining fixed in place. Her nose filled with the woman’s sweet, lilac-honey scent. Don’t lean back any more! Don’t turn around. Don’t! I swear... I’ll slit your throat! Her eyes blurred with welling tears.

Ponytail snapped upright in her seat. Her feet flattened on the floor, prepared to stand. Stanya’s heart seized. This was it. She was going to have to go through with it. Could she really do it? Kill a pregnant woman? Kill the child? She had to. Had to...

She waited, paralyzed. Moments ticked by. Her raised sentry knife became an intolerable abomination. She clamped her lips, thankful she couldn’t see her reflection in the windows. I’m a monster.

The tiny foot disappeared.

Oooff, you’re going to be a fighter, Ponytail massaged her belly briefly. The brunette’s feet rocked on the floor, getting the chair going as she settled back. Scooping up her knitting needles, she rocked, creaking and clicking.

Stanya’s muscles clenched once.

And then she was moving...backtracking toe-heel, toe-heel, unable to curb her reckless withdrawal.

Sheathing her knife by the door, she turned. Her thigh knocked into a table there. Atop it, a silver bowl of potpourri wobbled in a raucous circle. She grabbed the spinning rim, steadying it, eyes flying to mother and child.

Ponytail continued rocking, the chair creaking. Her knitting needles clicked and scraped as she hummed with the booming music.

Stanya backed from the stilled bowl and spun. Her shoes squeaked. Glancing back, the woman unaware, Stanya bolted through the kitchen, past the aroma of Snickerdoodles, through the mudroom’s door, past the aroma of WD-40 lubricant, over the bear and cub welcome mat, and across the shallow backyard to scramble up the hill on which she’d lain earlier to recon the place.

Reaching the hilltop, scrabbling, panting, Stanya sprinted into the sheltering woods.

CHAPTER TWO

Stanya careened through the woods, occasionally lurching, torso tilted forward, feet barely able to keep up with her desire to flee. And all the while she cursed the husband, the monster who’d hired them to kill his pregnant wife.

As she stumbled through the forest, her labored wheezing became the sound of her father’s, Grayson Grady’s, hoarse rasp as he’d given the orders to slit the wife’s throat, and then hack at it. Make it look sloppy, amateurish; the client wants it to look like a robbery gone bad. Rifle through the rooms, make a mess. Take the jewelry and the cash.

Stanya inhaled raggedly, picturing herself rummaging through the house while the pretty brunette’s blood spurted, the blood that kept the baby alive emptying in lessening surges.

The husband had even laid the groundwork for the police, faking a previous break-in by smashing the pane of glass in the sunroom’s French door to gain access to the knob, and then stealing some of his own cash and valuables. He’d reported the break-in, and the police had responded, providing little expectation of resolution, which had suited him just fine.

Stanya had been instructed to break another of the panes in the French door before she left, bashing it from the outside. It was supposed to look like another break-in, even though the husband had left the house key under the bear and cub welcome mat, which Stanya had used and replaced. He’d also recently oiled the lock with WD-40 so it wouldn’t squeak and warn his wife.

The husband had made these careful preparations for the vicious murder as Gray had instructed so it’d look like the second break-in had gone terribly, homicidally wrong. And then Stanya had stood behind the man’s wife with a raised sentry knife, while the woman cooed to his unborn child.

Stanya wagged her head, trying to banish the imagery.

But the client hadn’t told them his wife was pregnant and Stanya hadn’t seen it during the reconnaissance. She’d gotten a glimpse of the brunette then, but just her head and upper chest as she’d appeared in the kitchen window, washing dishes. From Stanya’s position in the depths of night, the lovely wife had performed while lit and framed as if on stage.

Though the show had been inherently dull, Stanya’s hackles had risen. While performing the mundane task, the woman hadn’t had any idea of her imminent danger. Stanya recalled how she’d reveled in the power of it. Reveled in the woman’s weak, clueless vulnerability. She’d hunkered just outside the luxurious home, surveilling expertly, a skilled killer waiting to pounce. She hadn’t been able to tear herself away, watching the entire play until the unsuspecting brunette had exited stage left, turning off the light without a curtain call. Only then had Stanya continued her assessment of the secluded grounds.

God, what the hell’s the matter with me? She’d been electrified by the woman’s oblivion to her proximity, prowling around to the narrow, tree and bush-filled backyard with a windowless back door. That night she’d found her access point, but she’d never suspected that access would lead to a pregnant woman.

If she’d known, if the client had told them… Or had he...?

Gray accepted the contracts, obtained all the details. He had to have known. Goddamn you, Gray!

Stanya’s heart banged painfully, her breathing ragged, and at the top of a ridge she staggered, loose-limbed, to a stop. Hunching over, she caught her breath with her hands on her knees. But even as she cursed Gray she had to admit, it wasn’t all his fault. She’d never wanted to know anything about the paychecks. She’d wanted to disconnect from them, like Gray did. But she never would’ve taken the job if she’d known the target was pregnant…and Gray would’ve known that. He’d just thrown her into the situation, unsuspecting. Probably another sick test. He knew she’d always done anything to pass his tests, to win a nod of approval from him. But not this time. Stanya’s hands tightened into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She gritted her teeth defiantly. Not this time, Father. She’d be proud to tell him she’d failed.

A moment later, her mouth dropped open. Oh shit, she whispered, words tumbling into the deserted forest. I didn’t cash the paycheck. Oh, my God. This isn’t over.

Her stomach rolled. She’d be expected to complete the contract. She’d still have to kill the pregnant woman…along with her unborn daughter.

Amy, Stanya whispered, as a replay flashed in her mind, the baby kicking, the shape of her tiny foot stretching against her mother’s belly.

Oh my God.

Stanya now had the answer to her questions: Could she really do it? Kill a pregnant woman? Kill the child? No. She couldn’t. She realized she didn’t want to do any of it anymore. Maybe I’m not a natural born killer. Father will be so disappointed.

Her body’s functions slowed, the raucous rampage of her hoarse breathing, her pounding heart, and racing mind, all numbed. Stanya marched robotically downhill, following a natural pathway. As she continued downward, the path dipped between solid rock jutting from the ground on either side, hemming her in and funneling her into a prickly bramble patch that obstructed the way through a narrow crevice. Christ. She chided herself for not paying any attention. She didn’t know where the fuck she was.

She stopped to take in the unfamiliar surroundings deep in the four-million-acre Okanogan-Wenatchee National forest. She didn’t recognize anything, the hills and brambles obstructing her view. Rising onto tiptoes, Stanya saw a clearing through the narrow passage of brambles. With a sharp inhale, she skewered into the thicket, the thorny dead shrubs scratching the backs of her hands.

She turned in the thorny bushes, muttering, Shit. I can’t see shit.

She navigated the pricklers, trying to part them, hands and wrists scratched and bleeding. The brambles reached chest height and she gave up making a path. Lifting her elbows, her hands protecting her face as she wove, she edged sideways through the worst of the barbs. Twisting through, she exited the thicket backward, facing the narrow patch of brambles wedged between the sheer rock walls. She took a deep breath, shifting her focus to the practicality of establishing direction.

An arc of sun pierced the incoming rainclouds and Stanya jogged backward toward the center of the glade to clear the treetops. She tilted her head back, lifting a hand to her forehead, shading her eyes against the glare. Using the sun’s position, she determined the direction of the logging road on which she’d parked her SUV. She pivoted to start toward the car, gasping as her toes jammed into a large mound of dirt. Off-balance, Stanya reflexively closed her eyes, throwing her hands out as she slammed into the ground, breath whooshing as her lower abdomen smacked the pile of dirt.

When she opened her eyes, Stanya met the milky-opaque eyes of a dead woman.

CHAPTER THREE

FIVE DAYS EARLIER

Niall danced his way through the loud, sardine-packed club wearing a black cardboard top hat, glitter-emblazoned: Happy New Year. The crowded bar wasn’t really his scene. He preferred solitude. He preferred quiet. But he was determined to make the most of the night. Smiling broadly, he two-stepped amongst the holiday revelers, elbows raised to his sides, fists in front of his chest. Forcing the joyous grin ached, though, and he stopped to refresh his cheeks. Opening his mouth wide, he made silent mwah’s as he scanned the crowded bar for his lady. To his right, a woman with vivid blue hair scoffed at his facial gymnastics. Niall relaxed his face under her excoriating gaze and smiled at her. When she pointedly turned away, Niall whispered, Whatever, you weird little Smurf.

Craning his neck, standing on tiptoe, Niall spotted the girl he’d come for, perched on a stool at the bar. Excited nerves fluttered in his belly and his smile intensified. With extra bounce and gyration, Niall skirted the long bar, jostled and bumped by the crowd. A man stumbled into him splashing him with a mixed drink.

Sorry, man, the drunk laughed.

Niall brushed the liquid off his suede jacket, fury sparking in his light blue eyes. The laughing drunk towered over him, and as Niall’s glare travelled upward, his expression tempered. Meeting the drunk’s amused face, Niall forced another smile, No problem. Crowded in here, huh? But the drunk was already moving on.

In front of him, a guy wearing a headband with glowing eyeballs suspended above his head on bouncing springs swerved toward his girl, his Hadassah. Niall’s lips twisted in disgust as the man crudely panted at her, tongue hanging out. The nerve of some men.

Keep walkin’, lookie-loser, Hadassah said to him.

Niall smiled.

What’d you say, bitch? headband guy leaned toward her.

Hadassah’s eyebrows lifted sky-high, What’d you call me?

The guy leaned further, forcing her backward on her stool and snarled, "Bitch."

Alarmed, Niall rushed forward to defend Hadassah, placing a hand lightly on the snake-like cords of the guy’s tensed forearm, Hey, um…

Fuck off. the man wheeled around, flicking Niall’s hand off.

Niall contained his wince at the distasteful language. He raised both palms passively toward the guy whose tattooed neck was thicker than Niall’s bicep. But more than the guy’s size and tattoos, something seemed off about him. It piqued Niall’s attention. Bracing for a punch from headband’s meaty fists, Niall’s racing heart skipped a beat.

Headband jutted forward, warning Niall privately, I have my eye on this, bitch. You get me?

The guy’s eyes were dead pools of mud brown. Niall diagnosed that look. Psycho. Nothing but trouble. He’d have to exercise caution in wresting his chosen lady away from this guy.

Leave us alone, Hadassah yelled over the music.

The twinkle left her eyes, and she bored her harasser with a chilling, blank stare of her own. She was spectacular. His little wildcat. Niall had seen her before and wanted her to be his so badly. He was finally ready to approach her, to woo her, and if possible, to take her home. He hoped tonight was the night. But if he managed to do that, he worried that this psycho might follow them out to the car.

The bully glared at Niall, I’m going to be back for her when she’s loosened up a little. Then he turned, bulldozing through the crowd.

Yep, he’d definitely have to watch out for this creep.

Whew, huh? Niall said to her. He wanted to joke with Hadassah, ask what the deal was with the bobbly eyes? It was New Year’s not Halloween. Instead, he silently wedged in next to her.

Taking a big whiff to catch her scent, his overwhelmed nostrils pinched against the sour odors of crowd sweat and alcohol. Making sure he had her attention, Niall signaled the besieged bartender and pointed to a single barrel sour mash on the top shelf, ordering, I’ll take a double of that Elmer T. Lee bourbon. Neat.

The bartender raised his eyebrows, smirking, and crossed his arms. Niall pulled out his wallet. Peeling off a hundred-dollar bill, he slapped it on the bar. The bartender uncrossed his arms, his smug expression vanishing gratifyingly fast.

You got it, sir, he stretched to the expensive top shelf of whiskey.

Niall’s heart skittered as Hadassah glanced sideways at him. He risked an overture. Would you like one? he called over the pounding music.

Sure, she angled toward him, her knee almost touching his thigh.

Two of those, he told the bartender, tapping the bar in front of Hadassah. Niall added a fifty-dollar bill while the bartender set Glencairn glasses in front of them, pouring. Keep the change, Niall told him.

Thank you, sir, he scooped up the money.

Niall saw the bouncing eyeballs out of the corner of his eyes. He turned slightly to see the psycho smirking at him, wolf-eyes glittering. The creepy guy moved behind Hadassah and hooked a thumb, motioning for Niall to leave, mouthing, fuck off.

His heart raced. This guy was distracting him.

Whoa, Hadassah blurted. One-fifty for two drinks?

Niall focused on the gleam in her eyes as she grabbed her glass hurriedly, raising it for a gulp. He tilted his head with a pained smile, halting her. She held the glass mid-air, watching him, waiting for his lead. He made a show of placing the glass tightly against the skin beneath his nose, parting his lips before inhaling the enjoyable notes of vanilla, cocoa, toffee, spice, and honey. Niall suppressed his amusement as Hadassah took a quick, closed-mouthed whiff, her nose twitching from the fumes. He took a small sip, swirling the flavors on his tongue before swallowing, enjoying the bourbon’s roasted grain and nutmeg finish.

The tattooed psycho sneered over Hadassah’s shoulder, raising his domestic beer bottle proudly. Niall ignored him as best he could. He wanted to focus on this moment. On his wildcat. She took a gulp and blinked watery eyes, her throat working to banish the burning liquid.

Mmm, that’s dope, she wheezed, making Niall snort delicately. Leaning toward him to be heard, she asked, How ya know ‘bout whiskey?

I’ve come to appreciate all things of perfection, he spoke into her ear.

Psycho raised his forefinger, pulling it across his neck, mouthing, you’re dead.

Leaning back quickly, Niall made direct eye contact with Hadassah, her eyebrows tweaking upward, her mouth a smirk as she accepted the implied compliment. Niall continued to stare, the corner of his mouth rising as Hadassah turned fully toward him on her seat, inviting his admiration.

Trying to ignore the bouncing eyeballs behind her, he drank the wildcat in, preferring her to the fine bourbon. Her delicate face was framed with black hair, straightened and curled in long, loose layers. Her almond-shaped brown eyes met his, spidery-thick lashes fluttering. He shifted his gaze from their undoubtedly fake lengths to her plump lips. The fullness of the bows and arcs enticed him and he lost himself in the lubricating shine of her orange-gold lip gloss. He stared as Hadassah brought the whiskey tumbler to her mouth, full lips undulating against the rim as she swallowed it all. Such supple, plump flesh.

Can I…? she raised her empty glass, interrupting Niall’s imaginings. Her chin tilted to a one-shouldered shrug and she asked, ‘Nother?

Cute. Smiling, Niall nodded. Placing another hundred on the bar, he watched the psycho’s mouth drop open as he snapped his fingers at the newly attentive bartender and pointed at Hadassah’s glass. He turned to ask her if she was there with anyone, but the little wildcat had picked up her bedazzled phone, her bangle bracelets clanking as she tapped expertly with long, curved nails.

Niall took advantage of her distraction to continue inventorying her attributes. She wore earrings that were dangling chandeliers of fake diamonds that drew Niall’s eye to her low-cut sparkling sheath of silver and gold, her cleavage so tightly squeezed, Niall struggled to keep his eyes off the shimmer-lotioned mounds of brown breast threatening to pop free. The hem of the body-hugging dress stretched across the tops of her thighs, her womanhood scant inches from view. The shimmer-lotion continued down her smooth, long legs and he followed the yellow sparkle road, like Dorothy, to Hadassah’s sky-high heels covered in sparkles. Ruby, of course. He smiled. It was perfect, precious. And the heels matched her sequined purse.

Niall’s round-trip led him back to the hem of Hadassah’s dress, and he mused on the supple, plump flesh hidden there.

Deliberately, he raised hooded eyes to the psycho, his lips curling slowly with satisfaction. Dropping the harmless act, Niall pinned the psycho with his stare, light blue eyes dilating as he envisioned the things he’d like to do to the man. Maybe I make a rare exception in my preference.

The idiot met his stare, and again, Niall’s heart skipped a beat. This guy continued to offer the thrilling possibility of a unique encounter. The dumb psycho was nothing but trouble because Niall had become distracted with taking him instead. Subduing him. Playing awhile. And then slaughtering him like the animal he was. Specifics passed through Niall’s mind, his imaginings exciting him.

The idiot finally caught a suggestion of the imaginings glittering in Niall’s eyes because his brows knit. Momentarily perplexed, beginner-psycho’s eyes suddenly registered surprise. And then unease. And then, the beginnings of fear.

Yes. Niall responded to the fear. His lips clamped with satisfaction, nostrils flaring. He imagined the baby-psycho strapped on his table. The things he would do...

Under Niall’s intense stare, the bully’s throat rippled. Bobble-eyes swallowed fear, striving to blink the alarm out of his eyes. Posturing, he stuck up his middle finger before turning, his spring-loaded eyeballs bobbing as he struggled against the crowd that had him hemmed against the bar. He broke free and rushed away, glancing backward once, palpable fear tensing his face, troubling his eyes.

Niall blew out a frustrated breath. He’d wanted to play longer. And he’d wanted time for his imaginings to reach