Free A Siren's Song (Ride of the Darkyrie 2) by Saranna DeWylde

because I’d gotten away with everything so far didn’t mean I was infallible. I had to remember that. Richard Sickert had been a big, glaring reminder. And still, somehow, I’d managed to tuck my head as far up my ass as it would go.
                  When I got to my building, I took off my boots before using my keycard to gain entry. And as much as I loved them, I tossed them down the garbage chute into the incinerator, along with the plastic sheeting from my car. I couldn’t chance tracking any blood, hair, or fibers into my apartment. I’d have to do the same with the clothes I was wearing.
                  After I showered I’d have to bleach everything, including the drain. I’d be longer than thirty minutes, but I will choose my own survival over catching another predator any day.
                   
                  My loft smelled of pine and snow inside. Not the tinny, perfumed pine scent of those tree air fresheners, but like the woodsy outdoors in the middle of winter. It was crisp and fresh, sharp. It was me . I inhaled deeply and let the scent fill me with a renewed sense of self.
                  The last letter from my father was still on my bed where I left it. I hadn’t been home to read it. Part of me wanted to tear into it now, but it was only the desire of the child I’d once been for immediate gratification. Reading them had never been just a simple matter—a tearing of paper and gluttony. His words were meant to be tasted—savored. Like fine wine and wisdom.
                  I peeled my leather pants off and my shirt, making sure I touched nothing but the tile and countertop in my kitchen, where any traces of tonight could be easily bleached away. My panties and bra were next.
                  Just as I unhooked my bra, the fireplace roared to life and a strange sound hummed in my ears. It was the buzzing of a thousand flies, but as it ebbed, a figure materialized before me.
                  The Cross.
                  Something black and dark burned in his eyes—they were like pools of oil that had been set aflame.
                  “What are you doing in my house?”
                  “Leaving you a gift. Obviously, I didn’t expect you’d be home.” His gaze raked over my nakedness and my body responded, nipples tightening and a rush of heat between my thighs. Then his eyes narrowed and I realized he recognized my lust. “I’m going to fix this reaction in you,” he promised. As if my desire for him were some kind of sickness.
                  And maybe it was.
                  But if I was infected, so was he. I could see the hard ridge of his want in his black fatigues.
                  “Fix yourself while you’re at it, handsome.”
                  His scarred face twisted into a sneer, and I expected him to lay hands on me as he had before, but instead of touching me, he sang. A note so clear and pure it hurt my ears to hear it.
                  The letter from my father that had been on my bed flitted through the air—a happy butterfly on an unseen current. I knew what he meant to do and the bloody clothes, Sickert, the Capri, everything else was forgotten in that moment but my letter.
                  “Put it back where you found it, assassin.” I’d managed not to let any fear creep into my voice, but it was there inside of me. Panic because it had been so easy for this enemy to root out the only thing that would hurt me and the sure knowledge that no matter what I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop him.
                  “Why?” Half of his mouth twisted into a malicious grin. The letter came to rest in his scarred hand and I had no answer to give him. Not even a lie.
                  “Poor little Helreggin is lost without her daddy,” he