On Edge
an excerpt

Erik left the conference room in silence behind him, striding down the hall to the bathroom and shouldering his way through the swinging door. A quick glance told him that the stalls were empty.

Erik slid into the stall furthest from the glaring lights, bending his head downward to help shield his eyes from the light. He leaned against the wall and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples, trying to work away the anger and annoyance.

Normally he could deal with this stuff just fine, but he had gotten too used to the immediate capitulation of the upper management and too distracted with Amy to recognize that opposition might be building. He ruefully admitted that at least they were following his advice and thinking independently, but he really didn’t need them to start now, especially if they were going to kick off the experience in this manner.

And Jarsel…Jarsel was going to get punched in the face. And maybe Erik wouldn’t do it directly – and he wouldn’t, not with the mood he was in now. It wasn’t something he could risk – but Erik would make sure that he was responsible for it occurring.

His imagination slipped again, tossing him another image of just how enjoyable it would be to follow through on some of the impulses that he was feeling right now. He could just wander back to the conference room, burst in with his knife drawn. A locked door and the element of surprise would ensure that none of them fought effectively for very long. He could make the kills quick and then go back for the blood shed he wanted.

It could be a nice appetizer, feeling the hot rush of Jarsel’s blood over his fingers. And then he would just need to slip down the back stairwell, out the emergency doors. It wouldn’t matter when the alarms went off, because he would be after his prey, his real prey.

It would only take sixty seconds, two minutes tops, to make it to Amy’s office. He could burst in, take out the man before he even realized what as coming. The door locked behind him would give him all the time he needed, to do…

To do what?

Blood, a dark corner of his mind answered. Make her bleed. That perfect skin, so perfect. Paint it red.

Fear, another part of his mind offered. See her afraid. Inhale the scent of it, feel her tremble in your arms as the knife moves closer, the sharp scent of tears in the air, her lovely voice whispering for mercy.

Teach her, another section chimed in. Don’t take out the guy. Incapacitate him. Give her the knife. Show her how it’s done. Teach her to do it herself. Feel the hot rush over both your hands. See the predator come alive.

No…no…the softest whisper, silencing the others. This voice in his mind was sibilant and low, familiar from long ago. You don’t want that. You want to feel her under you, her skin smooth against your bloody hands, her lips sweet against your tongue, her body moving with yours as you pull the knife around…

“No!” He hissed, physically jerking away from that insidious voice. “Not that. Not again. Never again.”

Yes, the voices answered as one. You want it.

His instincts stirred, ghosting between the voices, testing each idea, considering how much more fun it would be, how thrilling. How addictive.

He gave a violent shake of his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that began to fill his mind, a perverted poison slipping free from the container that had held it, tainting his blood, his mind.

His thoughts began to surge with images, terror, a sudden rush of red bursting through pale skin, the graceful curve of her hand around a throat, her body arching, blood running down her bare torso, her fingers clawing at his body, demanding that he bleed too, appease the terror, heighten the sensation, the blade of his knife black with dried blood, moving through the air, slicing through red-stained curls.

A strangled noise burst from his throat as he ripped off his jacket. His eyes were wide behind his sunglasses as his fingers began to fumble the buttons of his shirt, his panic making him clumsy, making him tear the shirt over his head only partially undone. Cold air assaulted his body as the echoes of his harsh breathing assaulted his ears.

He grabbed his knife as the images surged higher, urged on by the sound of the metal unsheathing.

Her body pinned between his and the wall, her expression melting between innocent panic and feral anger. His knife painting lines of blood across her back as she arched into the blade, her body moving beneath his, a hand clenched on his shoulder, fingers fighting for the knife, the blade leaving his hands as a triumphant cry left her throat, flashing through the air as it plunged toward-

With a gasp he jerked the blade across his bicep, the pure, clean pain dulling the wild pitch of his thoughts. He stared at the blood running from the shallow cut, curving over his pale skin before dripping to the floor. He dropped the arm, watched as the lines of red changed course, streaking down his forearm, over the back of his hand.

Without thinking about it, Erik raised the knife again, drawing a shallow cut along the curve of his ribcage. He braced the hand that held the knife against the stall door, resting his head on his forearm as he stared downward, letting the rush of blood once again hide his vicious fantasies.