18. Epilogue

One year later…Somewhere in the Midwest.

The diner was a relic from another era, all gleaming chrome and red vinyl booths that squeaked when you shifted. The air was heavy with the salty scent of frying bacon and bitter coffee, the clatter of dishes and murmur of conversation a familiar background hum. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slanting through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the scarred Formica tabletop.

I sat across from Stu, watching him methodically work his way through a heaping plate of eggs and hash browns, a contented little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

I let my eyes roam over him appreciatively, marveling at the sheer presence of the man. He seemed to fill the diner booth with his bulk, making the vinyl creak as he shifted. But there was a quietude to him too, a centered calm that could explode into calculated violence at any moment.

It still amazed me sometimes that this force of nature had chosen me, had deemed me worthy of his partnership in all things. In Stu, I had found not just an enabler of my darkest urges, but a true companion, someone who understood the twisted workings of my mind like no other.

As if sensing my regard, he glanced up, eyes crinkling at the corners as he caught me staring. "See something you like, pumpkin?"

I smirked, leaning back in the booth and stretching languidly, enjoying the way his gaze darkened as it raked over me. "Always, honey bunny. Though I don't know how you can shovel it away like that. It's barely past dawn."

"It's hungry work we do," he protested and shoved another forkful of eggs. "You know I always eat a full balanced breakfast before a hunt. It's the most important meal of the day, after all."

I chuckled, shaking my head fondly at Stu's twisted domesticity. Only he could make planning a murder sound like June Cleaver preparing a church picnic. But I suppose that's why we worked so well together. Beneath the blood-soaked bravado, we were just two broken souls who had found a home in each other's darkness.

"So, who's the lucky winner today?" I asked, idly twirling my butter knife between nimble fingers, the metal catching the early morning sunlight in hypnotic flashes.

Stu grinned, a slow, predatory thing that never failed to send a shiver down my spine and an electric tingle to my groin. He jerked his chin toward the counter where a man in a cheap suit sat hunched over a cup of coffee, barking into his cell phone loudly enough for the whole diner to hear.

The waitress had just refilled his coffee, but he put his hand over the speaker to berate her for not being there the second his cup was empty.

I watched the man at the counter with a detached sort of fascination, the kind one might observe a particularly loathsome insect. He was the epitome of every arrogant, entitled prick I'd ever had the misfortune to encounter - the cheap suit doing little to disguise the soft paunch of overindulgence, the thin sheen of sweat at his temples betraying the sticky corruption beneath the overpriced cologne.

His nasal voice grated like nails on a chalkboard as he barked orders into his phone, beady eyes roving over the waitress's form with undisguised lechery. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, all coltish limbs and wide eyes, discomfort rolling off her in waves as she tried to escape his unwanted attention.

Stu caught my gaze, a single raised brow asking a silent question. I tilted my head in the slightest of nods, a feral grin tugging at my lips. Oh yes, this one would do nicely. The thrill of the hunt was already thrumming through my veins, electric and alive.

I watched the man at the counter, anticipation coiling in my gut like a nest of vipers. He was oblivious to our scrutiny, too absorbed in his own self-importance to notice the predators at the periphery.

I let my mind wander, already envisioning how this would play out. We would tail him from the diner, perhaps stage a breakdown or play the part of a stranded motorist in need of assistance. Men like him, so assured of their own superiority, were always eager to demonstrate their dominance by rescuing a helpless piece of roadside ass.

I could picture it now - his piggy eyes roving over my form as I bent over the engine, hitching up my shirt to expose a tantalizing strip of skin. He wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity to get his sweaty hands on me. And that's when Stu would strike, a silent shadow in the glaring sun, tire iron glinting like divine retribution.

God, there was nothing like seeing Stu work, his brutally efficient movements as he reduced a man to a bloody smear, all coiled strength and barely contained savagery. It never failed to make me achingly, desperately hard, the rush of blood and viscera as potent as any aphrodisiac.

I shifted in the booth, my jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight. Stu smirked knowingly, a dark promise in his eyes. Oh, he knew exactly what he did to me.

"Tease," I said and kicked him lightly under the booth.

Stu just grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Anticipation is half the fun, pumpkin." He popped the last bit of bacon into his mouth. "Besides, you're pretty when you squirm."

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. Stu always knew just how to wind me up.

Our target finished his phone call with a final barked command, counting out the exact change to cover his bill before heaving himself off the stool with a grunt. Asshole didn't even leave a tip. I tracked his movements, picturing myself as a lazy predator watching an oblivious prey animal go about its day, blissfully unaware that its clock was running out.

He paused to leer down the waitress's shirt, his bulbous nose nearly brushing the delicate skin of her cleavage. I could see her recoil, the tight line of her shoulders, the way her smile became even more forced. My fingers twitched toward the butter knife, a sudden urge to jam it through his wandering eyeball making them itch.

But I breathed through it, letting the red haze recede. His time would come. And oh, would it be sweet .

The bell over the door jingled discordantly as he pushed through it and Stu met my eyes. "Ready, pumpkin?"

I slid out of the booth, anticipation thrumming through my veins like a live wire. "Born ready, honey bunny."

We stepped out into the brilliant morning sunshine, the asphalt already shimmering with heat mirages, though it was barely past dawn. Our target was just climbing into a nondescript sedan, the dull gray paint job as unremarkable as the man himself.

I turned to Stu, ready to set the game afoot, but paused when I saw him staring down at his phone. "What is it?"

"Tammy," he grunted, jabbing at the screen with a blunt finger. "Wants to know if we can swing by to run a load of product for her up to Memphis."

I smiled to myself. Tammy had done well for herself after Deacon's death. Romeo's disappearance had left a gaping hole in the drug trade in the Southwest, one that Tammy had somehow weaseled her way into filling. Who'd have thought the woman had it in her? Guess I shouldn't have been surprised after the way she mowed down Romeo's guys at the junkyard.

"Sounds good to me," I said. "We can probably be back down that way in what? Two? Three days?"

"Less time if we tag team the route." Stu grinned and slid his sunglasses on before tossing me the keys to Proud Mary. "You drive this time."

I caught the keys one-handed, their familiar weight solid and reassuring in my palm. Sliding behind the wheel of the big rig always gave me a little thrill, like stepping into Stu's skin for a bit. His scent lingered in the worn leather and sun-warmed metal.

I ran a reverent hand over the dash, the engine rumbling to life beneath me with a throaty purr. Stu climbed in on the passenger side, a solid wall of heat and muscle.

With a grin and a jaunty salute to the road, I popped the clutch and sent the rig roaring out of the parking lot. Our prey's sedan was a dull glint in the distance, oblivious to the predators on his tail.

Drive safe, little pig, or I'll huff and puff, and bite your fucking face off.