Trisha Wolfe

It’s the lovely bad things that steal into our thoughts in the middle of the night and tempt us across the line between good and evil.

“I would die for her. I would kill for her. Either way, what bliss.”

“Every fairy tale had a bloody lining. Every one had teeth and claws.”

Where we lurk, the darkness always finds us.

Police and government officials have a tendency to make even a saint question their morals.

“You’re not a girl,” I say, my tone bordering on lethal. “You’re an irritating inconvenience that is begging to have her ass reddened.”
Her pupils dilate. “And don’t you just hate how much that excites you.”

The pain webs my body like a fine mesh to coat the numbness.
But I still see her—feel her.
Want her.

When it comes to Jack Sorensen, disappointment is something I’ve grown accustomed to.

Most killers don’t change their MO—but it’s not unheard of.
I never thought I’d change mine, a ruthless creature of habit.
Yet here I am, risking everything—my freedom, my life—to keep a girl safe, and thinking about how my blood blisters my veins in anticipation for our next kill.

I have killed for my mother. I’ve killed for survival, out of compulsion, to sate cravings, and even, at times, fun.
But the decisive difference is that I wouldn’t just kill for Kyrie—I would give my life. Hell, I’d even let her take it.