Free Cold Blooded by Lisa Jackson

that barely scraped the surface, not enough to cause much bleeding, just enough to create sufficient pain to remind him that he, like all mortals, was born in original sin.
    The Chosen One slipped out of his clothes and, naked, knelt at the altar once again, bowing his head, murmuring a prayer of atonement Not for the killing. Now he understood. That had been necessary. As always. God's will. Even the violence, had it not been preordained?
    Had he not followed the Holy Father's ; commands to rid the earth of the vile sinners on the day God had selected?
    Yes, but he'd felt lust, that vibrant raw hunger that even now stole through his bloodstream. Hot. Dark. Wanting.
    He could not be weak. He drew in a deep breath. Readied I himself.
    Held his weapon high, then cracked his wrist.
    | Slap!
The leather fingers bit into his shoulder and he stiffened.
Pain, glorious pain, swept through him. His blood rushed through his
    veins. Heat centered in his groin.
He drew back the whip and snapped his wrist again.
Slap!
\ The sharp little stones stung. Like the bite of a hundred wasps. He
    sucked in his breath. Felt the ooze of a bit of blood. Enough to wash him of his sins. Again. He flicked his hand. Hard. Slap!
    His erection began to throb. Painfully. Deliciously. He thought of the woman. The way her pale curls fell upon her smooth white neck. Cecilia. Whore. Daughter of : Satan. She was so fine ... her body perfect ... that smooth neck beckoning ... for his blade, or his mouth? He imagined ' mounting her as she knelt, her body quivering, her lips begging forgiveness, his teeth catching hold of her nape as he thrust inside her. Hot. Moist. Slick. Even now he envisioned her heavy breasts hanging downward, rosy nipples nearly scraping the floor. How he would have liked to have stroked them, pinched those nipples, heard her cry out as he plunged deeper inside her.
    Sinner! Defiler! You are weak with your want of her!
He cracked the whip harshly.
Slap!
Pain tore through his flesh. He sucked his breath through his teem.
Again! The leather fingers sizzled in the air.
    Slap!
His body jerked.
Yes! The whore deserved to die.
He drew back. Braced himself. Cocked his wrist.
Slap!
Tears ran from his eyes as he felt the holy light bathe him. He would
    fight his lust, his weakness, and he would kill again to rid the earth
of Satan's whores.
It was God's will.
    Chapter Eight.
    Olivia heard the crunch of tires on the drive and glanced out the window facing the lane just as Rick Bentz stretched out of his cruiser. Even beneath the moss-bearded oaks, he appeared the big man that he was, muscular, nearly stocky, with deep-set eyes and an Fve-seen-it-all expression. He was wearing a jacket that fit loosely around his waist but stretched over his shoulders, casual slacks, and a white shirt.
    And a shoulder holster. She caught a glimpse of smooth leather and the butt of a gun.
    Some women might find him handsome, she thought grudgingly.
    He had a certain appeal with his square jaw and thick brown hair. His face was lined and craggy enough to be interesting, the bit of gray at his temples not unattractive.
    But besides the gun, it was the glint in his flinty eyes and the set of his jaw--all hard-edged determination--that reminded her he was a cop.
    And off-limits.
    Not that she was looking. But she'd noticed he didn't wear a wedding ring and she'd read somewhere that he was divorced, and that his ex-wife had died.
    She'd sworn off men after the last near-miss at the altar.
    Besides, Bentz wasn't her type.
    She opened the door before he knocked, and hairy rounded the corner from the kitchen to start barking like crazy. "Stop it!" Olivia commanded, and the dog, for once, actually shut up. Olivia met Bentz's eyes. "You found her, didn't you?"
    "We found someone."
    Oh, God. Deep inside she'd harbored the tiniest shred of hope that she'd been wrong. That, as this detective had thought, she'd just experienced a really bad nightmare. But of course,