Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
How long have I been in the bathtub exactly?
Saint’s eyes light up, and he lifts the whisk, showing me he’s working with melted chocolate. When is he going to show me his true face? Because this man seems so utterly harmless I have to remind myself of the ease with which he killed a perfect stranger earlier.
We’re even wearing matching pajamas, though his aren’t nearly as form-fitting.
“I was worried for a moment that you fell asleep in the tub,” he tells me as he takes the pot to where all the cookies are. “You did say you were very tired. Not too tired for cookies, I hope?” He could star in a Christmas ad for Macy’s with that smile.
I glance at the reindeer head-shaped clock. Two in the morning. Weirdly enough, despite all I’ve been through today, I’m wide awake.
“No, it’s… I mean, I could eat.” I’m getting a sense that I’m not just his sex toy, but also the boy he can dress up and play house with. “When did you bake all this? Did you deal with Galanis so fast?” I’m wary but doubt the cookies are poisoned, since he takes too much pride in baking to waste them.
Also, why do I have it in my head that he wants me dead, when he’s been so good to me? Or am I as deluded as he is to think I can date a killer?
Saint approaches and closes me in his arms, bringing me to his chest. The faint aroma of his favorite cologne is still there, but I rather like the warmth of his natural scent too.
“Oh, the weather sucks right now, so I just packed him up and stashed him in the shed for the time being. I’ll dispose of him tomorrow, and now we still have time to decorate some cookies.”
I raise my eyebrows but can’t help myself and stroke his side. “Shouldn’t we be planning the next kill? I feel ready.”
Saint huffs and cups my face. “We just killed one of your marks, didn’t we? Don’t be too greedy.”
I roll my eyes and point to the cookies. “I don’t get it. This just doesn’t feel very important right now. We’re killers. Even if I’m just one in the making. Pretending we’re having a lovely time decorating cookies is just… weird.”
Saint’s brows drop low over his eyes, darkening them. “I like baking. Killing is what pays for the flour and eggs.”
“Can we at least talk about who we’re targeting next as we do this?” I back away, unsure what to make of it all.
Saint lets go of me and glances at the counter filled with several dozen cookies. “We planned this. You know I took out the butter early so it softens. And it’s two in the morning. Why do you want to make plans now?”
I shrug, approaching the cookies. “I don’t know. Why do you want to bake at two in the morning? It’s as good a time as any. We’re already having sex, you don’t need to woo me.” Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter.
“It wasn’t two in the morning when I started,” Saint says behind me as I glance at the little men, each with a head and four limbs. It suddenly hits me that maybe he sees real people like these cookies—just there for him to play with. And maybe him trying to be so nice is yet another part of the game, the icing to cover the chipped trust. “It’s you who disappeared for hours and let me start on my own. We did what you wanted, and now it’s my turn!”
I shake my head, because it looks like we won’t be getting anywhere near planning the next step of my revenge quest tonight. Not when he’s throwing a tantrum. And I have no idea why he’s so set on this, but I rather not prod the beast when he’s already raising his voice.
The cheerful music is in such contrast to the dark waves in my head that I have to ignore it, but when all I get instead is Saint’s silence, my stomach drops. I’ve angered him, and while he isn’t lashing out yet, maybe I shouldn’t completely ignore the need for self-preservation. Would pretending I enjoy this charade really be such a big price to pay?
“Fine. What do I do?” I ask, standing by the stone counter, the snowstorm outside mirroring how I feel.
“I don’t know, decorate the fucking cookies? I prepared everything,” he eventually states, gesturing at a collection of colorful icings, sprinkles, buttons, and chocolate.
I huff, because this feels like a strange thing to do at two a.m. after killing a man, but whatever, I can do this if he wants me to. Maybe I’m also annoyed, because as I grab the pen with liquid icing, I have a flashback to doing something like this with my grandma. Who died in horrific circumstances. The music, the smells, the cheery decor rub my face in what I don’t have anymore, and never will.