Escaping Death

Call me monster or a saint. I’ll still get you either way, baby

If you scream, I will tie you up. Keeping it rough but call it love

I am aimed to kill

I am made to kill

Love the thrill

“Aimed to Kill” - Jade LeMac

— — — — —

Nightshade

Another day, another name.

Logan Shaw.

Took me all of twelve hours to hunt him down. He’s not exactly subtle.

He has a history of leaving a trail of battered and broken women in his wake.

Rumor has it that Logan Shaw met his mate when he was 21 and she was 16. He resisted as much as he could; though she was his mate, she was still just a teen. It wouldn’t be appropriate to claim her until she was 18. At first he threw caution to the wind and allowed himself to grow close to her.

It always starts out the same. They start off as your friend, innocent. But as time goes on the jokes become more intimate, the gazes linger, there’s a hesitation every time he has to take his fingertips off your skin or let go of your hand.

He had no business implanting himself into the heart of a young girl, regardless that he’s her mate. But that’s what he did. He broke his own rule, he allowed her to fall in love with him, he kissed her and yearned for her and made no attempt to hide the effect she had on him.

And like the selfish, arrogant, piece of shit that he is, he pushed her away. Threw her away, actually.

He filled her heart with longing and desire for a romance that should have been hers — that would have been hers…in good time. Then, instead of telling her the truth, instead of being honest and asking her to wait for him, to let him let her grow up and mature before he made her his…he made her believe that he didn’t want her, that she wasn’t worthy.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone that on her 18th birthday, when he called her for the first time in almost two years, she had begun dating someone new. Someone who loved her like a mate should, who was open and honest, who believed this girl hung the moon and the stars.

Logan Shaw’s mate ended up choosing this young man over him, over her own mate.

It’s natural to want to feel sorry for Logan Shaw. The poor guy was already three years into his search for his mate only to find out he needed to wait two more. It’s heartbreaking. Fucking tragic.

You’ll find your sympathies for him waning when you learn that he killed his mate and her chosen mate a month later. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.

But that wasn’t enough for poor Logan Shaw. He spent the next decade traveling from pack to pack, wooing and charming young, impressionable, unmated she-wolves.

He’d pretend to love them, he’d pretend to care, right up until the point where he was sinking his canines into their necks, forcibly marking them against their will, claiming them as his.

Most of those girls ended up killing themselves, ashamed that they had so easily fallen for him hook, line, and sinker.

But not you.

Logan Shaw made a grave mistake when he turned his teeth on you. You know you’re not his first victim, not that that knowledge makes anything easier, but you’re going to assure that you’re his last.

Half a day was all it took for me to track him to his latest conquest, a pack three hours outside of the city. Now he’s made his way here, preying on the she-wolves who frequent or live in the city.

Tonight Logan Shaw is preying upon a new club where dozens of humans and she-wolves have flocked to spend their evening having fun and letting loose.

The night is teetering on morning, but the festivities are just getting started. The overhead lights are dim and colorful strobe lights swirl around to the heavy beat of the club music while men and women group or pair off to dance, flirt, and fornicate.

Despite the minimal light bouncing and reflecting off of every surface distorting and blurring the sea of people around me, Logan Shaw is easy to spot. He stands at the far end of the bar, drink in hand, surveying his prospects.

Groups of mated girls out for a fun night and co-ed groups of unmated humans and wolves mingling and eyeing one another are parading around unaware of the monster lurking in the shadows awaiting his moment to strike.

While Logan scans through the crowds I focus on him, silently daring him to make a move in such a public place. I’m comfortable in any setting, I can kill as well in the dark as I do in the light…but there’s something thrilling about a public kill that makes me feel like an inverse exhibitionist. One who gets their high from making sure the public doesn’t catch their dirty deeds happening right in front of their eyes.

It makes choosing my weapon an art form. It can’t be loud or conspicuous, it can’t be dirty and leave traces, which is probably why I love poison so much. It’s easy to carry, easy to conceal, it makes no sound and leaves no trace.

But enough about me, tonight is Logan’s night — his last night.

I study him for a while to get a sense of his fishing strategy. So far I’ve gathered that he will always prowl towards women who are seemingly on their own. Maybe they got separated from their group, got lost coming back from the bathroom, maybe their boyfriend dumped them right in this club for some other prospect. Whatever the case may be, these women have found themselves on their own in the club and Logan is all too keen to scoop them up.

He’s the guy our mothers warn us about, the reason why we’re told to go in groups…safety in numbers. Because the Logan Shaws of the world are always lurking, always looking for someone to ruin as badly as he himself has been ruined.

The irony, though, is it makes him easy prey in turn.

It’s easy to play his game, and it’s easy for people like me to beat him at his own game.

I deposit myself at the opposite end of the bar, rimming my glass with my finger and looking between the bar and the dance floor like I’m just dying for someone to come sweep me off my feet.

I give him no signals, not a single bat of an eyelash, no smirk, nothing. But he invites himself over anyway.

“Mind if I keep you company?” His mouth is close to my ear so he can avoid competing with the booming music.

I smile, but say nothing. I’d like to see for myself how many times he’ll take what he wants without any regard for the wishes of the person in front of him.

He scents my neck as discreetly as he can as he situates himself on the barstool next to me. With a wave of his hand he signals to the bartender to refill our orders, then he turns to face me with his best and most charming smile.

“I’m Logan, it’s nice to meet you.”

I raise my glass to him in a silent ‘cheers’ before sipping the liquid fire between my lips. “Likewise, Logan. Thanks for the drink.”

“It’s the least I could do,” He says and I grin at his words. I’m fucking counting on it. “So why are you over here and not out on the dance floor with your pack…or your mate?” He slyly muffles the last of his sentence by bringing his glass to his lips and speaking into his drink. But I heard it.

“My pack is a ways away, but I’m not sure I want to go back. I’m a bit of a nomad I guess, looking for a place to land.” Only now do I look him in the eye, projecting a deep desire to belong anywhere, with anyone…even if only for tonight.

“Surely your mate wants you back home…” Goddess, could he be any more obvious? I mentally carve the word pig into his forehead before I finally respond.

“No mate…yet. Hopefully someday, someday soon.” I pause for a wistful moment, building up the need in him to claim me before my mate does. Just as his pupils begin to expand with dark desires, I interrupt his train of thought. “But until then, I’m just having as much fun as I can.”

His tongue lashes out to lick his bottom lip, doing his best to curtail the lecherous grin infecting his face.

He’s hooked. Now watch me reel him in.

“Well, Logan, thanks for the drink. It was nice meeting you.” I down the remaining contents of my drink and leave my seat at the bar, making sure to brush up against him accidentally before heading to the back of the club where there are bathrooms and narrow corridors that lead to the private rooms and offices.

I stand outside the bathroom as if I’m waiting, and fuck if this guy isn’t smooth. Logan walks past me grabbing my wrist as he does and pulls me around the corner into an even darker alcove hidden from anyone’s view. It’s a practiced move, the execution of which he has perfected over the years I’m sure. He gets you right where he wants you. Secluded, hidden, pinned between him and the wall. He makes you feel like it’s what you want, because why wouldn’t you? He’s good looking, you’re good looking…we’re all here to have fun, right?

“I thought the light was playing tricks on me,” he breathes against my lips while one of his hands cups the side of my neck and his thumb drags along my bottom lip. “Your eyes, I’ve never seen someone with eyes like yours. They’re too beautiful to be real.”

“Logan, we shouldn’t be back here…” I scold him with an arched brow.

“Lucky fucking bastard,” he says. He’s baiting me now, because I’ll obviously say, “who?” all breathy and panting like I can’t stand the tension building between us.

And then he’ll say, “your mate. What I wouldn’t give to be the one who gets to wake up to those purple eyes every day.”

I think this is where most of the conversations end, with his catch puddling in his arms, but because I’m me I keep playing, “as long as you don’t bite, there’s no reason you can’t wake up to them tomorrow.”

I’ve just turned this into the biggest thrill for him. He will have to actively go against my express wishes in order to claim me. I didn’t just say no, I told him he wasn’t allowed to do the one thing that he came here to do.

Logan closes the distance between our mouths, hastily sweeping his tongue past my lips and greedily exploring my mouth. He doesn’t want to linger here for long though, he wants to pull away, work his way down my neck, maybe wait for me to catch his intent and tell him again not to do it before he disregards me and claims me for himself.

But again…I’m me. With strength that surprises him I hold the back of his head, locking our mouths together for a little longer. He doesn’t feel me bite the capsule that I’ve had cheeked since I walked in, I don’t think he even notices the extra fluid rushing from my tongue to his.

Finally, I release him and right on cue he starts trailing down my neck. “Is it fucked up that I can’t stop thinking about what a lucky son-of-a-bitch your mate is? I’m tempted to keep you for myself.”

His fingers thread through my purple locks and grip tightly at my hair’s base in an attempt to hold my head in place, giving his mouth an unhindered path straight to my marking spot.

“Logan, don’t,” it’s a command but he’ll interpret it as a plea, as a green light.

Humid air warms my neck as his mouth hovers an inch above my skin, I can feel his canines descending, “tell me your name, baby.”

I hum happily because my chase is about to begin.

“Nightshade.”

Everything freezes for five full heart beats. His breathing halts, his smile slackens, a deep crease carves its way between his cinched brows. I watch the wheels turn in his mind, I watch as confusion and denial warp the scene he envisioned for tonight. When he pulls up and away from me, holding me away at an arm’s length, searching my eyes for any hint of insincerity, understanding slams into him knocking the air from his lungs.

My teeth elongate into razor sharp points making my self-satisfied grin look all the more unhinged.

“That’s not possible,” Logan whispers still in shock, slowly backing away from me.

“You’ll have more time than the others, but your fate will be the same as theirs,” I muse, popping the cap off of a small vial and shaking out a pill like I’m shaking out a tic tac. “Headache setting in, yet? Vision starting to blur?” The pill dissolves instantly on my tongue bringing me sweet relief from the same symptoms he is about to suffer. I wasn’t in any immediate danger, I’ve built up quite a tolerance over the years but I’m not completely immune to the effects.

Logan bolts for the emergency exit which leads outside into an alley full of dumpsters and Gods only know how many different types of bodily fluids.

He won’t get far, the paralytic stops him from shifting and slowly shuts down his muscles while the poison works to shut down his heart. I’d be impressed if he made it to the end of the alley where the shadows spill out onto the sidewalk perpendicular to where we are.

“Logan,” I sing as I walk outside behind him.

“Please,” he groans, bent over on all fours on the ground, “please don’t kill me.”

“Logan,” I kneel down to soothe him, raking my fingers through his hair tenderly. “Why would I ever give you the choice after what you’ve done?”

Logan begins to howl and sob afraid and unwilling to accept the inevitable.

“On behalf of every life you ruined, every choice you stole, every heart you violated, fuck you, Logan Shaw. The city will sleep soundly tonight in celebration of your death.”

Using my foot I push Logan over onto his side, the paralytic has completely taken over and he can’t even blink.

Hidden from view by the dumpsters, it’ll be at least a week before anyone realizes that he’s here. By then it’ll be anyone’s guess as to how he died.

But you’ll know. And therein lies your price. Living your life knowing that death was too good for him after all he’s done, but you had him killed anyway. Sure, no one else will suffer…but now neither will he.