More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
When I said "get a new hobby," I meant kayaking, not decking the halls with garlands of gore.
Merry Christmas! I’m getting myself an accessory to murder.
“Who are you?” I ask. His eyes find the clock on my wall and sparkle. “Your ten o’clock. But if this guy is done, I’m happy to start early.”
“That’s a good girl, Doctor Moore. We can’t let our emotions control our actions, right?”
Maybe this was his entire plan since we first met. Stalk me, kill my date, and then drag me back to the sex hovel he made for me. Honestly, no one’s ever made me anything before. That’s a level of commitment that’s as flattering as it is disturbing. I mean, depending on the state of said hovel. A hole in the ground would fucking suck. What the hell am I thinking? He lets me rip away and looks down at me in surprise. I shouldn’t have moaned. How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.
“Doctor Moore, I’m going to have to insist that you marry me.” He pets the tree’s branches with gloved hands as my mouth drops open.
There’s a certain Hell for people who blush when a killer calls them their wife.
I could handle a bad date and a murder, apparently. But being proposed to while my perversion is revealed? Too much. God, please pick another soldier; this one has had enough battles for one night. Ugh.
