Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I should definitely not be thinking about that.
He pulls his hand back, flustered. “Right. Of course. Too forward. After all, you, like me, hide under a pseudonym for a reason. I might have gotten a bit too enthusiastic. You don’t like hot chocolate?”
Seriously? How is the reason for my wariness not obvious?
“I… that guy spiked my drink.”
Nico tut-tuts and he looks at me with compassion, as if he’s not holding me prisoner. “Oh no… that’s how he got you? Look, I’m drinking it,” he says and takes a sip. “I’ve also brought sandwiches and a fluffier blanket.”
My stomach rumbles at the very idea of having a sandwich, and I bring the mug to my lips, tasting the creamiest, milkiest chocolate I’ve ever had. Or maybe it’s just my hunger talking. “I don’t know if I can trust you either. After all, you’re not letting me go.”
He passes me the blanket, and I once more glance at his muscular forearm dusted with dark blond hair. Am I admiring it or wondering how easy it would be for him to strangle me? I’m not sure, but I do know that without a weapon I won’t stand a chance against him.
“Nothing is out of the realm of possibility.” He’s dangling freedom in front of me, which makes me wonder if his perky persona is just a manipulation tactic. “But while I have you here, I’d love to clear up some misconceptions about me.”
Nico takes a big sip of hot chocolate and drags a small table close to the metal bars. He presses it against them, then sits on a small stool, which previously stood in the corner, as if he and I were sharing a meal. It’s… bizarre, but when he places a sandwich overflowing with meat, cranberry, and other goodness on a plate, I can’t resist and dig in.
It’s so heavenly I end up grunting with pleasure, only to freeze when a grin appears on the killer’s handsome face. “Uhm… yes?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he dismisses it and looks down at all the paper crafts he has set up on the table along with scissors. But the way he’s blushing suggests my moan might have been way too enthusiastic. I’m not used to being around a man who’s attracted to me, and now I’ll have to deal with that on top of the fact that he’s a damn serial killer.
“Do you like it? I just love Christmas foods. I can have them all year round.”
I might hate Christmas, but the seasonal food is all right. Or, in the case of this particular sandwich, damn tasty. I only hope the meat is in fact turkey, not human thigh. “It’s very nice. Did you make this yourself?” I try to once again crawl into his good graces.
He lights up as if he’s a star on a Christmas tree, and my heart skips a beat, even though I know he’s evil. Is this Stockholm Syndrome kicking in already?
“I did! I make a whole turkey every few weeks, carve it all up then freeze it, but I’m sure you’re more interested to find out the facts about me and my legacy. Who knows what will happen. If I die or go to prison, you’d be allowed to reveal everything I tell you.”
Now it’s him trying to reel me in. Whether he just wants me docile or to get into my pants, I don’t know, since I have no experience in flirting.
Once again, I’m a fish swallowing the bait. “You’re a copycat, right? You’re clearly not over a hundred years old.”
He looks genuinely offended as he bites into the sandwich. “Me? I might be twenty-seven, but I am a legacy, trained and allowed to carry the Christmas Killer name by my grandfather. There was a copycat though, I’ll tell you that. Three years ago, that murder of the innocent bauble-maker. But that wasn’t me. I found the bastard who did that under my name and disposed of him quietly. I didn’t want his death to muddle the waters of my story, and I only found him in January. I don’t kill willy-nilly. I check who’s naughty and who’s nice. And that guy was most definitely on the naughty list.”
I have no words for this shit. And still, despite the fear that makes me shiver and the horrible things that have already happened to me, I can’t help my curiosity. I’ve been following this guy’s story since I first heard about him, years ago. To have him at arm’s length and eager to answer my questions is an opportunity I can’t pass. To be fair, it might be the last opportunity I might get, so I chew my food and ask.
“The Christmas Killer’s victims appear to be chosen at random. Most were men, but investigators could never establish a preferred victim. I see how the copycat might have been a problem if they never figured it out. But you’re saying there is a pattern?”