Page 24 of Hollow Forest

Chapter 9 – The Monster

My sweet monster needed to feel control. If she was going to learn to trust me, she needed to learn she was safe with me. That I would bleed for her.

I’d devised this little game while helping Camillo work over another delegate from the Bratva in Trenton, before we washed up to take a much-needed coffee break. Granted, the slim scalpel we’d used wasn’t a kitchen blade, but it looked elegant and graceful poking into the Russian’s flesh. Camillo was our enforcer, the one who made the vodka-guzzling hitman sing. I volunteered to bury the body, since it was an excuse to go into the forest. I put him to rest in the same vicinity as the other messengers.

The Russian syndicate was becoming a real problem for the Ravello Famiglia. But that was for the triumvirate—the three ruling Ravello siblings—to deal with another day. Tonight, I was going to let Samantha’s dark side come out to play.

I knew what my little monster was capable of, and I relished the idea of letting her shine.

Leaving my shovel with my truck deep in the forest, I walked through the thickening shadows to Drusilla’s Cottage. The repairs were coming along nicely. No expense had been spared. Letting myself into the kitchen, I gazed around the renovated space.

It’s perfect.

Samantha was going to make this cottage her haven. And I would be the guy waiting for her to come home to it.

But first, she needed proof that she belonged here. San Pietro Cove was a town run by an organization of psychopaths. We would never turn away a beautiful little killer like Samantha. Her inner monster craved blood. And I had plenty to shed for her. Once she spilt it, she would start to realize she belonged. That I was a man insane enough to be with her.

I left a note on her counter, right next to the knife block. The new appliances were sleek and quiet. I hoped she liked the new fridge, and I couldn’t wait to make her breakfast on the new stove.

Outside, the leaves blazed bright with the last rays of the setting sun. The oranges were flames, dancing high on their towering, swaying beams as I jogged back into town. My running shoes were putting on milage with all the back and forth. My cardio now had purpose. Samantha wasn’t walking home alone in the dark.

A fine sheen of sweat clung to my body when I finally arrived at the Salted Biscoff. I took up a position outside the café, hidden in the shadows across the street. A crisp breeze fanned my face, and I was grateful for the cooler nights.

There was a reason fall was associated with death. There was no stopping winter. We were all subject to its control with no hope of mercy.

But the thought of spending the freezing nights tucked snuggly in the brand-new bed in the cottage promised we would be cozy until spring.

The moment Samantha emerged from the café, giving her coworkers a small wave, my pulse hitched. She scanned the street. Her gaze swept over my hiding spot, but she gave herself a shake and started walking.

I followed, anticipation for the game coursing through me. I had to force myself to go slow, to step carefully. I could barely breathe; I was so ready for tonight. Samantha paused, reaching up to brush her hair off her shoulders. She felt me.

That’s it, beautiful. I’m right here.

She took a step, and then another.

“Now go home, so we can play,” I whispered, pulling the skeletal half mask from the small of my back as I merged into the shadows shrouding the ditches along the side of the road. But I needed something that would leave my mouth free…in case she offered me a taste.

Chapter 10 – Samantha

For the remainder of my shift, I’d spent the time talking myself off the metaphorical ledge. I’d even refused to look at my phone. Not seeing the messages, it was easy to squash the dark frenzy flickering in my chest. I reminded myself that I was a ghost. My sole purpose in life was to haunt the living and make the guilty pay.

Fun, even the dark and twisted kind, was for the living. Those who had potential and had never known loss could spend their nights in amusing pursuits. Okay, so frolicking in the woods with a stalker was not what the average red-blooded American woman did. But that was exactly why it was shocking enough to kickstart my soul.

And I’d almost regained control of my senses. If it hadn’t been for the note I found next to the knife block when I walked into the kitchen after my shift, I would have succeeded with reburying the part of me that had no business being revived.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I hissed.

My stalker was insane. There was no other way to describe the note. He wanted me to take one, to chase me outside, and stab him when he caught me.

The part of me that was numb and felt comfortable as a machine with one glorious reason to exist, that part wanted me to go upstairs, change into something comfy, and go to bed. But there was no way in hell I was sleeping. That torn piece of paper would be downstairs, waiting like a dark beacon, the messy scrawl of words taunting me all damn night.

After using the bathroom, I ran my freshly washed hands through my hair. “You don’t have to play.”

My reflection looked disappointed. The woman in the mirror bit her bottom lip.

I wanted to.

“No,” I told her firmly. “You are going to go downstairs, make a bowl of cereal, and get your butt in bed. You aren’t even going to eat the roast he made you.”