Sweeter Than Sin by Shiloh Walker Page B

Dean.
    Harlan was just the beginning. Cronus must die.
    “And he’s not done,” she murmured.
    Then she looked down at the picture that had been left on the table.
    Like the man wanted them to know why .
    Like he had to make them understand.
    I’m not just a killer. I have to do this, he seemed to be telling her.
    She picked up the picture, the bile rising in her throat.
    It was old, one of those Polaroid type of pictures. The edges of it were burned. She eyed the fireplace, bits and pieces of paper, even a few photos, still partially visible.
    Had her man pulled it out of the fire?
    There was no way to identify anybody in the photo, but she didn’t have to know them to be disturbed.
    There was a bench. An older man—she had a bad, bad feeling it was Harlan, although she didn’t know if she’d ever known for sure. The image was cut off so all she could see of him was the shoulders down. There was a scar bisecting his left biceps.
    His flesh was male and toned.
    And he was raping a teenage male, a skinny young man tied up and bound to a bench. Scars, both old and new, marred his narrow back. He was faceless, nameless, head turned away from the camera.
    Whoever that man in the picture was … yeah . Her personal thoughts were that death just wasn’t good enough. But her personal opinion couldn’t come into play here.
    “Think it’s Troyer?”
    She looked at Ben as she slid the picture into an evidence bag. “I don’t know. If he has a scar like that, we’ll know after the ME looks him over. If it’s not, we need to figure out who it is, because he’ll be one of the next victims.”
    Her stomach twisted even thinking it. She didn’t want to help save a man who’d rape a child.
    She wanted to kill him herself.
    *   *   *
    She dreamed.
    Arms closed her around and she wasn’t afraid.
    You came back.
    The voice wasn’t familiar, low, rasping in her ear, and the sound of it made something low in her belly go all tight and fluttery.
    As a hand opened low on her hip, she tried to turn, but he nipped her shoulder.
    Be still.
    I want to look at you, she argued.
    No … I’ve waited, too long. I get to do what I want now.
    What he wants. The promise of that made her shiver. Made her want to whimper with want and need.
    Squeezing her knees together, she tried not to moan as he nudged his cock against her ass and started to rock against her, the rhythm unmistakable. Warmth rushed through her, preparing her.
    He slid his hand between her thighs and she gasped, arching.
    Take a breath, he said. You’ll need it.
    She almost laughed. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even think—
    Then he flipped her onto her belly and her face was shoved into a pillow. A hand tangled in her hair, held her pinned there.
    You think you can come back now? His voice was an ugly, hateful snarl. How many lives will you ruin this time?
    She struggled against his fist, tried to claw against his hands. Please. I only wanted—
    But she couldn’t speak.
    Couldn’t even breathe …
    *   *   *
    Lana came awake, choking the scream back by shoving a fist against her mouth. She’d learned, long ago, how to hide the sounds of her nightmares. It had been ages since she’d shared her bed with anybody—not since Deatrick, years ago. But even if she woke screaming, people talked and word got back to him and he started worrying.
    Before him, it had been problematic in other ways.
    Eventually, she’d learned to hide it for other reasons. It was just easier. Better this way.
    But as the screams died inside her throat, tears leaking from her eyes while the nightmare faded, she lay shivering on the bed, feeling more alone than she’d felt in her entire life.
    She was home.
    Just as she’d wanted for so long.
    But nothing was the way she’d hoped it would be. She’d come back under a lie. And nothing was any different than it had been a year ago. Six months ago. Rolling onto her side, she curled her knees up and hugged them to her chest,