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All I can see is fury roaming through them, and a normal person might be disturbed by that, but me, it’s the real thing he’s ever let me see of him.

“Wanna find out?” I know it sounds like a question, but I know better than to take it as one. A part of me wants to push him over the edge so he will punish me; maybe he will turn me over and spank my ass raw, and then tomorrow when we’re roaming the Halloween party, I can remind him. Or maybe he’s going to fuck me slow and whisper sweet stuff in my ear, and then when he curses, he won’t ever speak to me again. I wonder which one I’ll get today.

“No,” I breathe out, but even I’m not sure I’m convinced, and by the way his eyebrow quirks, he knows I’m lying, and it could be turning him on more by the bulge that he’s pressing against me.

“Such a bad liar.” I don’t say a thing; I can’t because a moan would escape my lips. I keep looking in his eyes before my body’s being turned around, and I raise my top, plating my tits on the wall, my nipple piercing pulling, but I like it. I get off on pain, and Max knows this. He knows I want him to be mean and cause me unimaginable pain; it’s the only true way I can get off.

“Is that what you want?” His hand slaps my left cheek, and then again. I squeal out of pain, but all that does is make him slap me again!

“Y-yes,” I say through clenched teeth. Why does this feel so good but so wrong?

The only next movement I could fathom him doing would be ripping my panties, but he doesn’t; he leaves.

Anger and pent-up tensions run through my veins; if I wasn’t already in the mood to slice someone’s body and carve their organs out, then now I’m ready to do it in broad daylight. I’m sorry, your honor. I guess when you grow up with fucked up parents, your inner serial killer tends to want to be let loose.

But I can’t with Halloween just around the corner.

The one thing I like about doing this once a year is that, as much as I like to pick the people we kill, we don’t. It’s a part of the agreement—if they have a red pin, we have free hand to kill them. What fuels me even more is that they are all bad people.

Max and I really do unleash our unholy, devilish selves on this type of night; we do stuff no sane person could even tell their therapist without being deemed insane. I suppose it’s a good thing I never went to therapy, or perhaps if I had done so at a young age, I wouldn’t be where I am now.

CHAPTER 5

MAX

“Are they dry?” I holler up the stairs, my voice echoing off the narrow walls. The old house swallows the sound, turning it into something hollow and strange.

Emma is upstairs, somewhere in the attic bedroom, getting out the masks. The floorboards above me creak in slow, lazy protests, like they’re tired of holding her weight—or maybe just excited. I glance at my watch. We should have left ten minutes ago, and she’s still messing around like we’ve got all night to carve people open.

The hallway smells like bleach and cheap, floral air freshener; our attempt to scrub away the copper tang that always seems to linger. It never really goes, not for me. The scent of blood is buried in the wood, soaked into the plaster, and under my nails.

“Seriously, Emma, we need to leave,” I call, sharper this time.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her presence arrives before she does—a slow pressure at the back of my neck that makes the hairs stand up. Then she appears at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the bannister, the other dangling a mask by its strap.

She’s barefoot in her tight black jeans, my old shirt hanging off one shoulder, the neckline torn from the last time I grabbed it in a hurry. Her lips are smeared with the dark red lipstick she insists on wearing whenever we hunt. It always starts neat, sharp, and seductive. It never ends that way.

Emma doesn’t bother answering. She just lifts her chin and jerks it toward the door, a silent order to go. The movement is lazy, almost as if she was bored, but her eyes—those bright, hungry eyes—are already somewhere else. Already out there, on the road, in someone’s house, under someone’s skin.

I swallow, turn away, and hoist the bag. The weight drags at my shoulder, solid and familiar, metal shifting softly inside. Comforting. Dangerous. I cross the cracked tiles to the front door and step out into the cold October air. Emma follows me, her footsteps slow, but I still hear every step she makes. I make it my duty to listen. The night has that particular Halloween feel to it—too still, too expectant. A thin mist curls low along the ground, lowering the sound of distant laughter and cheap plastic decorations rattling in the wind. Jack-o’-lanterns glare from neighboring porches, their carved grins flickering with candlelight, like they know the joke we’re about to play on the world.

I pop the trunk open and put the bag in, relief hitting me as soon as I don’t have it hanging off my shoulder. My muscles feel lighter, freed up. Useful. Ready.

“What kind of weapons did you pack?” I ask, eyeing the bag like it might answer for her.

I turn to Emma, and she’s at my side, warmth sliding up against my arm, her perfume mixing with the faint chemical reek that clings to her skin. She smells like sweetness laid over something rotten. It makes my pulse jump.

“Oh, you know,” she says casually, flipping her hair back, “a couple of knives. Guns. Oh—and lots of peanuts.”

I turn, and my eyes widen. “Peanuts?” The word catches in my throat. “As in the very kind of thing I’m deadly allergic to?”

She smiles slowly, that wicked, familiar curve of her mouth that always means trouble—for someone. Sometimes for me.

Her fingers trail down my chest, pausing just over my heart, pressing lightly through the fabric of my shirt. “Relax,” she says, voice low, amused. “You look like you’re about to faint, Max.”

“Emma, please tell me this is a joke.” My voice comes out harsher than I want it to. I can feel the anger bubbling up under my skin—hot and restless. She knows what this does to me. She knows exactly how close my body sits to the edge; how easy it would be to tip me over.

She looks at me like I’ve just insulted her, like I’ve accused her of something unforgivable. Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a glint there—interest, maybe. Curiosity.