4. CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

Dahlia

" H ere's one Kill My Pie for you." I grin at the sweet auburn-haired kid behind the counter.

She snatches the Key Lime Pie cupcake I offer her.

"What do we say?" Her mother, another sweet redhead, ruffles the girl's hair.

"Thank you." The kid in the green peacoat gives me a toothy smile.

"You're more than welcome."

Her little hand scrunches the cupcake. Once her teeth sink into the pastry, she beams at me once more. This time, her teeth are bright red, the food coloring I used for the meringue.

It wouldn't be a decent Kill My Pie cupcake if it wasn't bloody.

"Yum," she exclaims before her mother ushers her out .

The kid's black Mary Jane shoes don't make a sound on the black and white tiles of my small shop. One more step, and they're gone.

"Excuse me." The words are spoken not as a question. As a demand.

Gunner.

Since the moment he got in line, I've been waiting for his attitude. For him, period.

My smirk is inevitable. I run my hands over my black and orange apron, smoothing it over my black knit dress. I fake caring about appearances like any respectable shop owner would, patting the high bun I have on my head.

Pretending to be normal is a skill I've perfected. It also grates on his nerves that I take my sweet time serving him.

"Are you done?"

"How can I help you, sir?"

Sir. What a joke.

Abuser more like it.

I've watched how he tortures his family at home. Sadly, I see it now just as vividly.

Poor Adrianne Ricker, his blonde, much shorter, and slimmer wife. Pounds of makeup cover her right cheekbone, and the hint of purple is still visible beneath it.

He beat her up. Maybe last night. Maybe this morning.

My hand raises on its own to the snake tattoo curling on the side of my neck.

My scars are there much like Adrianne's bruise is on her cheek. Mine never fade, though. No amount of covering up will be enough to mask the humiliation. The pain. The torture .

Nothing will.

But I have a way to improve her and their teenage girl's lives. The one the balding Gunner grips around the neck. Possessive. Too possessive. How a father who grabs his daughter's ass would hold her.

You've grown a nice rack over this summer, Jane. A sweet, round butt. That's my girl.

Gag .

The few black strands he has left on his head will make such a nice meal for the stray dogs later tonight.

"Fifteen of your Happy DeathDay cupcakes." He slaps a fifty on my marble black counter. There's dirt under his nails. His rude voice booms over Donovan's "Season of the Witch" I have playing over the speakers. "Make it fast. I'm late for work. And for walking this beauty"—his slimy black eyes slide to his daughter—"to school."

My fake customer-pleasing smile is plastered on my face. Cemented there. Nothing will move it.

My insides, though, fester with loathing. They riot. My hate for him is as dense as a cupcake mix without baking soda. Dense. Dense, dense, and even more dense.

"I'm sorry, sir." Sir Fuckface , I say his actual name in my head. On the outside, I gesture toward the display. "My supplier forgot the sprinkles today. A disaster, I know. He promised he'll drop them off this afternoon."

"The fuck?" Gunner's cheeks redden. Anger flashing behind his eyes. "I took the morning subway for this?"

Exactly the reaction I was counting on. He makes my job of luring him in here later a walk in the park .

"I understand your frustration." The bright smile on my red lips feels genuine. Because now it is. "Let me make it up to you. I'll give you ten percent off and have them ready for you after I'm closed. Eight-thirty tonight, fifteen Happy DeathDays will be ready just for you."

"Hmph. Okay." His thumb strokes the side of his daughter's neck. He's appeased. I'm about to throw up all over my display. "Fine."

The color leaves Jane's cheeks. Her large brown eyes search mine for help. Her mother's, on the other hand, are glued helplessly to the floor.

Hang in there, ladies. One more day and you're home free.

"Wonderful." I gesture to the fifty-dollar bill, signaling for him to take it back.

I'm not touching his germ-infected money. In broad daylight, I'm as clean as can be. As clean as Tyler once was.

It's the nights of October when I'm covered in filth up to my eyeballs.

And loving every minute of it.

The last of the customers left fifteen minutes ago.

Since then, I've been organizing the back-back room. My secret room.

I've covered the floor in black tarps. Swiped the inside of my freeze dryers clean. Sharpened my butcher knives. Filled up two piping bags with Gunner's favorite Happy DeathDay vanilla frosting .

One container of the black, orange, and purple sprinkles, ready to be used.

Everything's set, and all it took was fifteen minutes of work. I'm quick as I am diligent. A master in the art of slaughtering bastards.

With fifteen minutes to spare until my soon-to-expire customer turns up, I flip the sign on the door to Closed , leaving the door unlocked. Next, I move around the front, wiping the display window clean. I won't be needing my cash register today, so I count the money and lock the bills and credit card receipts in the safe beneath my counter.

Gunner's money doesn't interest me.

His life does.

Billie Eilish's "Bad Guy" comes up on the speakers, and I giggle. No song could be a better soundtrack for this evening.

Humming along the lines, I grab a cloth and turn to the tile walls behind the counter. I squirt the cleaner spray on the black and white tiles, then swipe at them. Squirt and dry, squirt and—

Ding.

The bell above the front door announces a visitor.

Every muscle in my body tenses. I graze my sharp canines along my bottom lip. The scent of blood wafts into my nose, even though not a drop has been spilled.

Yet.

The anticipation has me smelling copper. The hunger for vengeance. For healing.

Probably why I miss the real scent of the person that's walked in .

My eyes see my mistake the moment I turn around. My heart takes notice too, coming to a painful screech.

And my soul—that shriveled little thing—doesn't know what to do with itself. This man… My man. He's here.

Tyler Price and I face each other from either side of the counter. I'm frozen. He moves closer until he casts a shadow over me.

Tall and broad and menacing in his black hoodie and a gaze that could kill. His dark eyebrows are drawn together. When he studies me like that, I don't feel like a murderer. I feel small. So small.

Over the time we spent apart, I've always had the upper hand when sneaking into his place. He's been sleeping and I was the one stealing orgasms from him. I was the one who decided when to come and when to do it. The one who broke into his computer.

Even when he broke into my place, I sort of had the power. I knew something he didn't.

The ruler, the queen, the motherfucking emperor.

Me.

Not anymore. Not in Tyler's presence. I forget about being a killer. Forget Gunner will march into the shop soon. Very soon.

I forget all of it when Tyler's awake and glaring at me. I'm no longer queen of death. I'm Icarus, flying close to the sun. So close I might burn.

So close that I don't care if I burn.

Tyler takes another step forward. I hear the front of his boots as they connect to the counter. There's anger in his eyes, but not in his touch. He curls his fingers around the snake tattoo on my neck, and there's no anger there.

His possessiveness isn't as poisonous as Gunner's. This is love.

For a second there, I marvel at his touch. I purr like a goddamn feline. I imagine he enjoys touching me same as I enjoy the pad of his thumb stroking my mangled skin. The iceberg in his eyes thaws, I think.

Until it's back to being himself. The mask he forces on his beautiful face.

Tyler's expression shifts into something cruel. A taunting smirk. A quirked eyebrow.

"Little savage." His fingers dig. Bite. Burn. My damned heart still soars at the pain. Especially at the pain. "There's no use for this sweet act. Nothing will convince me to stay. I don't want to stay."

I don't want to stay . I've heard that one before.

I'll never believe that.

"Oh, really?" I curl my fingers around the handle of the knife I hide in my apron.

I've missed him. Leaning into him and hoping for the old Tyler is nice. That's it. Nice. Being scrutinized by him is more of my definition of fun. Playing a game with him is delicious.

And preparing for a banter war with Tyler is better than anything this world has to offer.

It's an opportunity to lure him back. Show him I'm safe with him.

If he twists my arm, force me to threaten him with the knife so he' ll stay, so be it.

"Really." His gaze is meaner with each passing moment. My thighs clench at the sight. "I'm here because you and I are going to have a chat. After that, we're done. Ian's sister."

My fight deflates at the name. My soul cracks, tears. It plummets to the floor and drops even lower from there. Like, to the sewer.

He'll really leave once we're done talking.

Then what? Back to pretending he hates me so I'll stay far, far away from him?

Fuck him. Fuck him trying to push me away with Ian's name.

"Leave my brother out of this," I growl, stepping back.

"How?" Evil Tyler holds me tighter. Pulls my face to his. "I can't leave our story out of any of this."

The meaning behind what he's saying is clear, and fuck, I can't be angry with him for it. I have to heal him.

"The past is in the past."

"I'm not sure it ever will be." Ty presses his forehead to mine. Tilts his head. Every movement is confident. "But I had to… I have to… Fuck, I miss you."

He whispers that last part. I don't think he meant for me to hear it.

I did. He misses me.

"Is that why you came here?" I whisper.

No answer comes. Not a verbal one. Tyler forces me forward, crashing his lips onto mine. It's ferocious and violent. As hot as the fires of hell. As intense as learning a new recipe .

Tyler knows it's my first kiss. Has to know. And yet he doesn't bother with being gentle, sweet, tentative. Doesn't ease me into it.

He's taking what's his.

The counter digs into my belly and one of my Chucks lifts off the floor.

He doesn't stop at that. No.

This new Tyler I've been watching for years is the rugged, ruthless version of the young man who dragged me out from the pits of hell years ago.

This one has been stalking me for years. Has been writing a goddamn blog about me.

This one is cruel.

His lips pry mine open. His tongue lashes in, and mine strikes back. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway. I need him. I need the taste of him branded into my head. It's coffee and dark chocolate with a hint of sea salt in it. It's him.

And he doesn't hold back. Tyler's fire consumes me. His lust is so strong that I'm being burned at the stake.

My hands fling to his neck. Fingertips desperate to study the veins cording it. To touch the loud pulse beneath his skin, searching for another sign of life. A proof I'm really touching him.

My thumbs brush his scruff, and he groans into my mouth.

Maybe he's done pretending he's mad.

Maybe he'll have me.

When he finally breaks our kiss, he doesn't let go of my neck. His forehead stays right where it is .

If I was a timid, frightened girl, I would've kept my eyes closed. I'd be smart and avoid what I might find in his gaze.

But I'm the motherfucking devil. I fear no one.

Eyes open. Heart in my throat.

I stare back at him.

"No, little savage. You were wrong. The past isn't in the past." Not even Tyler Price, his cruel eyes, and his crueler words, could scare me. "It's here. I feel it better now, around you. You're an infection that's killing me slowly. Every day I die a little more because of you. You're a disease that never—fucking ever—leaves."

"You don't mean that. Not in a bad way." I don't call him a coward. He's brave. Brave for saying mean words. Brave for pushing the love of his life away to protect her. "I won't leave because you want me with you."

"You will leave. I told you that I'm walking away after this, and I am. I'm going. Do you hear?"

"No."