Night Prowler 03 - Rapture's Edge by J. T. Geissinger

Author:J. T. Geissinger [Geissinger, J. T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Paranormal - Romance
ISBN: 9781611099133
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20 - devILS Are everyWhere

The prostitute was a blonde, as silas promised, but not his favorite blonde, the one who screamed with such beautiful abandon, the one whose milky pale skin welted to the perfect berry pink, bruised to the most gorgeous mottled purple.

She wasn’t his favorite, no. She wasn’t young, or pretty, or thin.

She wasn’t moving at the moment, either.

Standing at the end of the bed fully dressed, Caesar regarded her in the bleak fluorescent light of the bedside lamp. She lay facedown on the stained and rumpled cov-erlet, spread-eagle, naked.

He cocked his head, inspecting her with the cold, clinical calculation of a collector, of a connoisseur. There was good naked and bad naked and everything in between, but the worst was ugly naked, the kind where even a hospital nurse, used to seeing people steeped in shit and blood and vomit, would recoil.

This bitch was definitely ugly naked.

Angry red ligature marks marred her wrists and her ankles from where he’d bound her, and a splatter of blood decorated the fleshy, dimpled arch of her hip.

Her back was dusted with freckles, soft as a sifting of cinnamon against her pasty skin. Her lank yellow hair—thin, he hated thin hair—lay in limp strands across the pillow and her face, hiding her eyes. Open? Closed? It didn’t matter. He didn’t want to see her eyes, anyway.

He always liked to cover their eyes; it was only their screams he wanted.

This thin-haired whore had given those to him in spades. The plastic ball gag he’d cinched around her mouth and neck had done little to muffle them.

The hotel room was in the red-light district on the outskirts of Montmartre, seedy and glum, visited by a certain caliber of men who moved furtively through shadows, scurrying like rats. It reeked of sweat and piss and cigarette smoke, of pain and desperation. It was all Caesar could do to block it out. At times like these he cursed his heightened senses, one of the few differences between himself and those ratlike men.

Perhaps the only difference, if truth be told.

He lifted his foot and gave the lumpy mattress a sharp kick. The whore didn’t react, didn’t make a sound, just rolled slightly with the bed and then settled back a little too quickly to heavy, unnatural stillness. Her skin was beginning to show the faintest tinge of gray. Outside in the parking lot, unseen beyond the drawn drapes, someone screamed something unintelligible and slammed a car door. Off in the distance, a dog barked three times.

Yellow hair. Gods, he hated her hair.

Folded on an old rattan chair against a wall stained and peeling was a blanket, threadbare, patchy, and plain.

Caesar spied it and allowed his gaze to linger, arrested, appreciating the only thing of beauty in the room. The color of it. The beautiful, saturated hue.

Indigo. He’d never really realized how beautiful that particular shade of blue was before.

His mouth watered. Another erection—much firmer than the one he’d inflicted on the whore—stirred to life in his pants.

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