"Any wine this evening?"

I shake my head, and he turns to walk away, but I stop him. "You know what? Yeah, give me a gla.s.s of chardonnay, please."

"House?"

"That's fine."

I bury my face in my palms as he walks off. This entire ordeal with Edwin is stressing me out, and the fact that Jax has, for whatever f.u.c.king reason, taken up residence in my head... so what will a gla.s.s of wine hurt?

A few moments later, the waiter returns with a large gla.s.s of wine, which I down in a matter of minutes. Every few minutes the waiter pa.s.ses by, glancing at the empty seat. He brings me a second gla.s.s of wine-and a third-and still I sit alone, my fingers drumming over the white tablecloth.

The waiter stops at the table again, this time balancing a tray of dirty dishes on his arm. "You sure you don't want to order an appetizer while you wait? Some calamari, possibly?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm sure." I glance at the empty seat, embarra.s.sment nearly drowning me. Where the h.e.l.l is he?

I smile as the waiter walks off, and for some reason, the room starts to feel as though it's closing in on me. The conversation grows louder. The rattle of dishes. The annoying laugh of that lady across the room. The child whining. Whining. Whining. Sweat begins to p.r.i.c.k over my forehead, and my head is swimming from the wine. I just need to step outside for a moment. Get a breath of fresh air. Not have that d.a.m.n waiter staring at me because I'm here alone and waiting like a woman who's been stood up. I don't want him to think I'm that girl, so I push away from the table, grabbing my phone and purse, and briskly make my way to the front and out the door.

The cold air wraps around me, loosening the tension that has been building in my muscles like a small tremor. I take a deep breath. I glance around the crowded parking lot, telling myself Edwin is roaming around looking for a parking spot. Maybe he's been stopped by fans.

Telling myself I'm not crazy for continuing to work with him. That it will all work out in the end.

My heels tap over the pavement as I make my way back to the entrance of the restaurant. My cheeks sting from the warmth from inside. I skirt around the hostess stand, weave between the family of four blocking the opening to the dining area, and go straight to my table.

There's a fresh gla.s.s of water. I fall down into the chair and grab my phone before I set my purse in the empty seat beside me.

Jax. Jax and his dimples. He wants to see me. I want to see him. No, if I'm honest, I want to do more than see him, and for that, I am ashamed. I want him naked on top of me, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat as he f.u.c.ks me. I feel a slight pressure build between my thighs at the thought of it, and almost as suddenly as that desire has begun to torch through me like a rogue fire amongst parched woods, guilt douses me. Something about him makes me feel slightly mad. Unhinged in the most delightful of ways. He makes me feel as if I could possibly be something I'm not. As if I could be that girl. That girl authors write about. That girl readers dream they were. That girl who ends up with that guy...

My leg is shaking, and I've nearly chewed through my bottom lip. I pull up his contact, staring at his name. His name: Jax Peralta. Something about that sounds so right. Miranda and Jax. I feel like a teenager again with a ridiculous crush. My finger hovers over the Call b.u.t.ton. Antic.i.p.ation builds. My heart pounds in my chest; my mouth feels dry.

"More wine?"

I barely hear the waiter I'm so focused on my phone, but I nod all the same, and he trots off.

No, texting is easier because then I don't have to talk to him and worry about what a b.u.mbling idiot I sound like. I can just type out words, read them, realize how ridiculous they sound, and delete the entire message. Gone-like I never even thought those things.

I quickly type: Hey. Saw that you called. What's up?

Shaking my head, I bury my face in my palms, peeking through my fingers with one eye as I go to delete that stupid message, and somehow, my fumbling fingers. .h.i.t the Call b.u.t.ton.

I panic and grab the phone. Just as I go to hang up, I hear the m.u.f.fled sound of his deep voice come over the line, and I cringe, biting my lip as I lift the phone to my ear.

"Well, how about that. A call back from Miranda. How you been?" Jax says.

My heart goes into an immediate sprint, heat creeping over every last inch of my skin. "Good," I blurt. I take a breath, praying for my voice not to shake. "Got your message, and uh, I was just, you know, calling you back."

The waiter places the gla.s.s of wine on the table. I grab it and take a large gulp just as an elderly couple shuffles past the table, the woman talking so loudly I can't help but be distracted from the call.

"Glad you did. It's good to hear from you." He hesitates. "Given any thought to dinner?"

"Well, actually. I'm at dinner..."

"Wait, wait, wait... tell me you called me while you're out to dinner with EA Mercer. Even if you gotta lie, give me that win."

A small smile tears at my lips. "Yeah, I'm with the raging d.i.c.k."

He laughs, and it carries loudly over the line. "Raging d.i.c.k or not, I love his words. Reading his latest right now actually and wondering when I'm going to be able to get his next one. I heard he got himself a killer co-author. Wink. Wink."

I feel my cheeks heat, and I'm giggling like a thirteen-year-old girl. "Well, I'll see what I can-" I catch Edwin in my peripheral just before he plops down in the booth across from me.

He flashes me a smile as he smooths out his shirt, then he eyes the phone in my hand.

"Oh, hey, you know what, let me call you later. Edwin just sat down."

A snicker comes across the line, and it's now Jax who sounds like the prep.u.b.escent teen. "Did you really just call him Edwin? Un-f.u.c.king-real." He laughs. "Okay, okay, call me later."

I hang up and slide the phone back inside my purse, my face still on fire.

Edwin's cheeks are flushed, his skin damp. "Sorry for the delay, I couldn't find parking to save my life."

"Yeah, it's crowded in here." I narrow my gaze on him as I pick up the menu. "You okay?"

Nodding, he lets out a heavy sigh. "You'd think the nicest restaurant in this city would have some f.u.c.king valet. And a better-looking hostess." He laughs and motions back toward the entrance. "You see that f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h? Obnoxious little one, she is."

"Uh..." I grimace. He's such an a.s.shole and so disgustingly inappropriate. It almost makes me wonder how in the h.e.l.l he's become so successful. "So what's good anyway?"

"What's good?" He recoils, curling his lip in disgust. "What are you, fifteen? Come now." He shakes his head as his eyes drop to the menu. He abruptly lets the menu fall to the table and grabs the top of my hand, giving it a squeeze. He has a saccharine sweet smile. "What am I going to do with you?"

My jaw clenches, and I clear my throat as I pull my hand away from his grip. "I meant, what do you suggest, Edwin?"

He doesn't respond right away. His eyes are locked on his hand, now alone on the white tablecloth. "What do you think of our book?" His eyes trail up my body until they meet mine. "I mean really."

"I think it's good."

"Good? Just good?" he asks, no emotion in his voice.

"I mean"-I feel sweat building beneath my hair-"it's-"

"Because I think it's great." He smiles, pulling his hand back finally, clasping it with his other hand. "I think it's exceptional."

That's not what I'd expected. I'm almost taken aback by his compliment. "I really like it. I think the characters work well together. Our writing is complementary."

"I think you and I make a great team," he says. It's almost as though he didn't even hear what I said. "If this book does as well as I think it will, there's potential for many more after it. I've shared what we've written already with my publishers. Janine's read it too. They're all smitten with Ms. Miranda Cross." The crooked smile inching its way across his lips makes a knot form in the pit of my stomach. "As smitten as I've found myself." His smile deepens.

I swallow as an uneasy laugh makes its way up my throat.

He unlocks his fingers and picks up his menu once again. He opens it and hums as he scans the words. "I like the filet a lot, but really, you can't go wrong with any of the meat on their menu. They have an in-house butcher." A wry smile curves across his lips. "Cut fresh daily." Then he winks at me, his eyes locking with mine.

And it's in this moment I wish I were more practiced with social skills, more apt at figuring people out. Because in that stare, while he's attempting to make it warm, is something so cold and uncalculated. Or maybe, maybe that's a look of diverging motivations between he and me. I swallow, my eyes darting from his and down to the menu, which is now subtly shaking in my nervous hands. For some reason, I feel like small, helpless prey, and he's the hunter waiting in the bushes for the moment I step onto the snare he's so carefully laid out.

But, really, that's ridiculous...

"Ma'am?" The waiter stops at the table, his eyes darting nervously to Edwin's seat. "Would you like to go ahead and order?"

"Yes, yes, we would," I say.

He smiles nervously, jots down the order, and walks away. And I'm left here with Edwin. To awkward conversation and my own overactive imagination wondering exactly what he wants from me.

"Doomed"-Bring Me the Horizon There are skeletons in every closet. In some, they're stacked ceiling-high. In this world, you're either predator or prey, and it's all predetermined. As predetermined as r.e.t.a.r.dation or cancer. Those of us ingrained with the will to live, to survive, to thrive, and to kill if we must, we see the world for what it is. We understand the wicked within us all. We harness it.

The wicked side of me will always be the most powerful, and I think that's where I differ from most other alphas. I don't have a stopping point. I have no moral compa.s.s. I am not guided by unseen bulls.h.i.t. I am the G.o.d of my own world, waiting for the outer world to crumble around me so I may laugh upon its ruins.

What if I told you we live, we die, and then nothing else? What if I told you I saw it coming long ago in a dream? I saw myself morphing, evolving into a beast, feeding off the fire and brimstone... the end of days... the forgotten souls. With each step, the earth shook in devastating fashion. I breathed fire onto the huddled remaining few. I watched their skin peel from their bones. And in the destruction, I became full.

Now, I find myself in this peculiar position, this position of f.u.c.king weakness, and one I have never found myself in before-wanting another human being for more than just blood or a f.u.c.k. As of late, my mind wanders to Miranda so often, and though I could f.u.c.k her to within an inch of her life, that's not what drives me insane. It's the desire to be near her, to love her, to make her mine. I knew it from the moment I saw her name... and the moment I read her words. She was meant to be with me, and I with her.

I thought about that phone call the whole dinner. The deep male voice over the line. The red in her face as she spoke to him. I tried my best to hold in my anger, to act normal, but it's f.u.c.king boiling inside me.

My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn ghost white. Silence fills the car as it has since we left the restaurant, and if it continues, I just might run this f.u.c.king car into oncoming traffic.

"So who was that on the phone?" I ask-I blurt it, really.

"When?"

When? b.i.t.c.h, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. "At dinner."

"Oh, a friend..." Her eyes narrow, the light from street lamps flicking over her pale skin as we barrel down the highway. "I guess maybe an acquaintance. I don't know." She glances out of the window. "He's a really big fan of yours."

My mind starts to sketch out what he might look like, what their connection is, what he could give her that I can't. "Oh yeah? Big fan, you say? I'll have to sign a book for him," I say, fighting back the urge to find out more about this friend.

"That would be really nice of you." She glances at me and smiles.

"I've always held the belief that men and women can't really be friends. One party always wants to f.u.c.k the other," I say, glancing at her with an eyebrow raised and a coy smile. "But who the h.e.l.l am I to say? I don't have any friends."

"Well"-she crosses her arms-"I disagree. Not everything's about f.u.c.king, you know?"

I laugh, finding her naivety amusing. "Oh, dear, don't you know? The world revolves around money and f.u.c.king."

She glares at me, arms still crossed. "For certain people..." A smirk dances over her red lips. "I'm sure it does."

"I suppose love is in the mix somehow." I look at her out of the corner of my eye. "Tell me, Miranda, have you ever been in love?"

She laughs, shaking her head, her hair falling softly over her shoulders as my fingers beg to get tangled in it. "Love is a crock of s.h.i.t."

A sudden burst of laughter erupts from my mouth. I slap the steering wheel hard a few times. "I feel I may have underestimated you. Here I was thinking you were the gla.s.s-half-full type."

"Yeah, well, I can a.s.sure you I'm not."

"I do believe in love. As black as my little heart may be, I do believe in this world, there is someone for every a.s.shole." I pull the car off the county round and onto the long, pitch-black driveway leading to my cabin. "It's just a matter of stumbling into them. And not ever letting them slip away."

"Well, if that's the case, I've yet to stumble across my a.s.shole, I guess." She shakes her head.

I loop the car around the front of the cabin and park just to the side of it. Opening my door, I nearly trip over myself trying to get over to Miranda's side fast enough to open the door for her. She's got it halfway open by the time I get to the pa.s.senger's side, but I hold it for her regardless. She'll like that.

She looks up at me. "Oh, thanks..."

She steps out and slips past me. I trail her to the front door, my eyes tracing the curve of her a.s.s, lost in the thought of what kind of underwear she's wearing. And the thought of them balled up and stuffed into her mouth.

No. I don't want to hurt her. How could I? I love her.

I unlock the front door and open it, letting her go in first before I follow. The cabin is completely still and dark. Perfect.

She flips the switch on the wall, and the front room lights up. Her eyes drift from my face, down my body. She wants me, and she's making it evident. I smile until her gaze stops on my legs, her eyes widening and her brow scrunching.

"Edwin..." she says softly.

I look down to the exact place her gaze has landed. Blood. In spots near my knee.

"Is that..." Her eyes narrow. "Is that..." Her perfect little brows pinch together, shooting a jolt of want through me. "Is that blood?"

I laugh, shaking my head and drawing my focus back to her. "How funny is that? Cut myself the other day chopping wood." I hold up my thumb and flash an inch-long gash down the side. It's a few days healed, and it was from an ax all right, but I wasn't chopping wood. "It busted back open earlier today. Must not have noticed." I shrug and flash her a toothy smile. "Though I guess you didn't notice either, did you?"

Stepping back, she shakes her head. "No, I didn't." A smile flinches over her lips, followed by a short, uncertain laugh. "Well, good night." She turns on her heel and heads toward the hallway.

"Good night, Miranda," I call as she disappears into the darkness.

She doesn't see it, but I'm smiling. I'm smiling because there's a yearning inside me, alive and feeding off of her, growing in intensity with each pa.s.sing day. I want her. I need her. And with every drop of willpower I can muster, I fight the urge to follow her into her room, take what I've wanted all this time, and give her what she wants in return. I know she yearns for me too. How could she not? It's only a matter of time before I make her mine.

It's only a matter of time before we kill as one.

"Cry Little Sister"-Gerard McMann "How fresh?" I ask Tommy as we cross the busy street, evening rush hour well under way. I cradle a full coffee-probably my twentieth of the day-in both hands as Tommy manhandles two donuts. I stopped counting those around lunchtime.

"Examiners think within the last twenty-four. They figured we'd want to get a look at it before they carted her off." He chuckles, his mouth full of pastry. "It's a mess, partner."

"So I've been told. You said an abandoned house off Twelfth, right?" I ask just as we meet the intersection of Twelfth and Stark.

"Yeah." He points at a decrepit house a few hundred feet away blocked off by police tape with a clutter of personnel spread out around the area. Curious neighbors have taken to their porches. Tommy chuckles again, swallowing the last of his donut. "f.u.c.kin' stray dog pulled the b.i.t.c.h's foot out of the house and into the street. That's how they f.u.c.kin' found her."

"You s.h.i.tting me?"

"Do I ever?"

I just roll my eyes. I never know what to believe when it's coming out of Tommy's mouth.

"She's in about ten different pieces, partner. Scout's honor." He does a jacked-up Boy Scout salute then holds up the police tape for me to go underneath.

I nod in appreciation then pa.s.s a few more nods to some of the personnel I'm fond of, mingling in the front yard.

"Hacked up at every joint," he continues, "and at the neck. I mean, we're talking Mr. Potato Head type s.h.i.t in there."