Twilight Hunter

Digging around in his coat, he found the lock pick he always carried and let himself into the building. He waltzed in like he owned the place, right past a bewildered-looking family. They eyed him up and down, and the mother squeezed her baby just a little closer as they hurried past.

The door slammed behind them as he walked toward the stairs. “Nothin’ to worry about, folks,” he said under his breath. “Just your friendly, neighborhood werewolf executioner.”

He sniffed the air. The smell of her perfume lingered, mixed with something he couldn’t quite identify, but the familiar trace tormented him. He followed the scent of gardenias up two flights and to the second apartment on the left.

Was he really going to do this?

He knocked hard. “Francesca?”

He listened for a long moment, but no one answered. He let out a loud sigh and pounded on the wood again. “Hey, Princess, you in there?”

He rocked back and forth on his heels, praying she would answer the door and make it easy on him. With all his senses on edge and his adrenaline pumping, he knew she was in there. But there was that other scent mixed with hers. The rank smell of...

Damn it.

Jace smashed open the door and burst into the room with his Mateba pulled and ready to fire. The door hit the wall in an echoing bang. He charged through the entryway and tightened his finger on the trigger. He would blow the fucker’s head off.

A small sniffle came from the middle of the room and Jace’s eyes locked onto the woman he already thought of as his. She was sitting on the floor with her legs tucked underneath her, and she was clutching a broken picture frame. The shattered glass cut into her hands, and drops of her blood speckled the hardwood.

Holy hell.

He holstered his gun and stood at her side. “Are you okay?”

She gave a small nod. Clutching the broken frame tighter, she glanced to the wall and back to the mess around her.

The apartment was trashed. Pieces of broken glass, torn fluff and splintered wood from the furniture were scattered everywhere. Jace walked to the wall and saw what she’d been looking at. Dried blood. He’d written the words in blood. Take it like a bitch.

Taped underneath was a professional, full-length photograph of Francesca with two people whose faces had been scribbled over with a permanent marker, blacking them out. Pasted over her photographed body were pictures of torn flesh, the killer’s way of making sure she knew how she would look after he got hold of her. After her death. Jace ripped down the picture and examined it more closely. He knew whose bodies had been pasted over hers—the women that sick fuck murdered.

He stared at Francesca sitting on the floor, a look that was half defeat, half rage contorting her face. Though she didn’t fit the usual profile, he was sure she knew she was the next victim. He’d made a huge mistake in so many different ways by taking her back to his apartment. He had a feeling that was exactly why she’d been targeted. He needed to fix this. He would not let that psycho destroy any more lives. Especially hers.

“Was the room like this when you showed up?” he said.

Her hands trembled as she nodded.

Jace’s anger peaked, like a bomb ready to explode.

No one hurts my girl.

Where the hell had that come from? He shook his head. No, she wasn’t his.

“He’s not going to hurt you, Princess. Not even over my dead body. I’ll rise from the grave just to drag his ass down to hell. You got me?”

Her eyes widened, shining with unshed tears, and all the color washed from her face. But then her mouth drew taut with underlying anger. His arms itched to wrap around her. He wanted to torture the SOB who’d done this.

“My parents...” She opened her mouth to say more, but nothing came out.

His attention captured, he asked, “What about your parents?”

“The photograph.” Raising her bloodied right hand, she pointed to the picture he was holding.

His palms clenched into fists, and he swallowed down a feral growl. “Where are they? Did that damn psychopath go after them, too?”

“No, my...my parents were murdered three years ago.” She stopped trembling, and some of her color returned to her cheeks. Her eyes glazed over, masking her emotions as she collected herself.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They wouldn’t want to be the object of anyone’s pity, and don’t be sorry for me, either. I don’t remember much of that night. The pack shrink says I’m lucky that my mind blocked out the memory.” She stood and walked toward him, still clutching the frame. Her gaze returned to the picture. “He ruined my only portrait of us, all three of us, together as a family.”

She stared at the photo with such calm resolve, her sadness dissipating and shifting into another emotion he couldn’t quite identify. The silence hung thick in the air, suffocating him.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to dealing with...” Living victims. “Do you... Is there somebody I can call for you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Jace raised a single brow. “You’re sure? You don’t have anyone?” He regretted the words as soon as they escaped his mouth, and he wracked his brain, trying to think of something to say. Preferably something that didn’t make him sound like an insensitive moron.

“I don’t want to put anyone in danger,” she said. “All I want right now is to find this low-life piece of shit and tear him limb from limb.” Her volume escalated until she sounded powerful and firm.

He cringed as her hands tightened on the broken glass, not a single trace of pain on her face. He reached out and cupped her hands in his. An electric jolt shot up his arm and down his spine. She jumped and pulled back.

“Whoa. If you want to rip him apart, then you better stop cutting up your hands. You’re going to need them.” He rubbed his thumbs in gentle circles on her skin until her hold loosened.

Taking the frame from her, he placed it on the ground. Shards of glass protruded from her smooth skin.

“Sit on the bed.”

Without another word, she walked to her swanky four-poster, slow and lifeless like a zombie, before resting her hands on her lap.

He scratched his head, not really sure of his next move.

What would I do if she were another hunter? What would I do for an ally? First aid?

“Do you have any peroxide?”

“There’s some under the bathroom sink.” She gestured to a door on the other side of the one-room apartment.

He rushed into the bathroom and stepped around the mess. The brown peroxide bottle had rolled behind the toilet in the midst of all the vandalism.

Snatching the bottle and some spare toilet paper, he hurried back out. If Princess was anything like him, her werewolf genes would kick in and she would start healing in no time. The glass needed to be pulled out pronto, before the wounds started healing around it.

He knelt in front of her, and she stuck out her hands.

“Ready?” He looked her in the eye.

She gave him a single nod, and he plucked the first piece of glass from her palm. She winced.

“You okay?”

She inhaled sharply. “Just get it over with.”

Trying not to be too rough, he picked the shards from her skin one by one and tossed the bloodied pieces onto her bedside table. When her hands were glass free, he screwed the cap off the peroxide. “This may sting a bit.”