Hateful obsession

Chapter 13

                                    Charlotte
                "Hunting. And I am a hunter."

Three days. Three days since my fucking husband who was almost my ex came back into my life. Three days and two orgasms that my body missed so much.

I started rubbing my skin harder as the water flowed down me like a waterfall. I'm dirty. Unneeded. Used. The fact that he irritates me more and the desire to tear him into pieces is even stronger.

I threw the sponge aside and abruptly turned off the water. No. It is not a cold shower that can help people come to their senses, but their way of thinking. I continued to stand, trying to regain my normal breathing. Think like a hunter, not like a mouse in the paws of a cat.

My palms clenched into fists and a slow grin reflected in the glass of the shower stall. I help him - I benefit the most by using it and not allowing myself to be used. He fucked me with his tongue and fingers? I got an orgasm by mentally putting one of the most experienced men on his knees. Do I have to sleep in the same house with this bastard? So it's not me who is trapped in his trap, but I use this as an opportunity to make this place mine.

I exhaled evenly. That's better. I opened the shower door and stepped out, leaving a wet trail on the rug. After drying my hair, I twisted it into a not very attractive bun and put on pajama shorts, a voluminous T-shirt and warm wool socks. Despite the fact that it was summer, my heels were always cold. The perfect ally for an equally cold heart.

In complete silence, my feet returned to the room and I took out the same envelope that he gave me that first evening, but before I started, my gaze was riveted to the landscape outside the window. Night. I always loved to work at night. To think. To analyze. To understand everything that happened to me during the day.

So beautiful. Dark. Gloomy. Mysterious. And most importantly, quiet. It's the perfect time to commit a crime or start a hunt. Because everyone is asleep, helplessly thinking that they are in the perfection of their bedroom. But only villains do not do this. Not when they want to kill and take revenge and know that they themselves can end up underground as corpses.

I finally moved away from the window and sat on the soft bed in the lotus position, crossing my ankles. The envelope began to tear open under my fingers and I poured out five photographs and the same number of papers.

Having arranged each photo on the bed, I frowned. These people are so different. And in a simple life where I would be a simple woman, I would never recognize or see the thread that connected them. But this is not so. The mafia traitor made each of them his insurance. If I understood something when I lived in the residence of the Russian mafia, it was that their accounts were always protected.

If they are hacked, which is what happened, then there should automatically be a 10-digit code that blocks any fraud, stopping the flow of money. If there are five people, then each of them knows two numbers. But they can also tell me an interesting story about meeting a traitor, giving the opportunity to get closer to his/her personality.

I put everything back into the envelope except the information on who would be my victim tomorrow. My eyes began to run over the lines of text in the dim light of the lamp that Dean had mentioned before going to his room.

Daniel Graves. 37 years old. Divorced. Two children. Owner of a nightclub. Almost went bankrupt almost a year ago, but now his business is thriving.

I threw the piece of paper aside and took the photograph in my hands. Those grey eyes were his as it was signed for me.
"It doesn't take a genius to figure out where you suddenly got your money, does it, Mr. Graves?" I crumpled the photo with all my might. "It's a shame you're in my hands now. And believe me, money won't save you from my poison."