Page 111 of The Fire Went Wild

“Fast.”

Jaxon breathes out like he’s relieved. “Thank the gods,” he says. “I really didn’t want to torture you.” Then his eyes take on a kind of wicked gleam and he adds, “I’m more interested in what comes after anyway.”

I throw a wadded-up piece of legal paper at him, which he deflects without even trying.

“How do you want to do it?” I ask.

He taps his pen against the notepad like he’s thinking. “Probably cut a couple of arteries,” he says. “You’d bleed out in about five minutes, which isn’t bad. Most people pass out before then anyway, although Hunters don’t always.”

He watches me, gauging my reaction. I know he can feel the heat in my core at the thought of the blood.

“Severing your brain stem would be faster,” he adds, “but that’ll take longer for you to revive.”

“That matters?” I ask. “How you do it?”

“Yeah. The less damage I do to your body, the faster it will take. I’ll also need to keep you covered. Buried, you know That speeds things up, too.” He writes something down on the notepad. I try to peek, but he covers it with his hand. “I’ve already got that part covered,” he says. “But it’s a surprise.”

I roll my eyes. “Will my body rot?”

“Nope.” Jaxon scribbles something else on the notepad and looks up at me, and there’s that shyness I love so much. “Which means I get to play with you the entire time you’re dead.”

My pussy clenches at the thought. “I thought I wasn’t really dead.”

“You know what I mean.” He tilts his head, studying me. “How do you want me to do it?”

I think about it for a moment, considering the possibilities, watching them play out in my mind and getting more and more turned on with each image. A split throat. A severed brain stem. Drowning in the muddy swamp water. A chain around my neck?—

“The way I killed you,” I whisper, and Jaxon grins so wickedly I almost want him to do it right here and now.

But no. We have to make our preparations. We have to do this right.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Jaxon says, and then we get to work.

The dayof my death is cold and bright. I get ready in a dusty old bedroom Jaxon told me was his grandmother’s. I can see it, too; there’s a softness to the decor, lots of vintage lace and gauzy curtains. A big full-length mirror in the corner. A vanity where I’m sitting now, braiding up my hair so it won’t get in the way.

I keep expecting to change my mind. I keep expecting this decision to feel wrong, for dread and fear to coil like twin snakes in my belly. Death is supposed to be the ultimate fear, but the thing inside me that broke open when I killed Oliver Raffia also killed any fear I had of death.

Because my death will only ever be temporary.

I’m certain of it, as certain as I’ve been of anything. And so here I am, ready to be initiated.

I slide the last hairpin into place and blink at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a pretty white dress that Jaxon gave me, the fabric soft and thin and tight around the bodice, with a long, billowing skirt that just barely skims along the top of the floor. It’s not really warm enough for the weather, but I don’t mind the cold.

I double-check my makeup—smokey eyes, thick lashes, pale lips. Maybe there’s no point in doing my makeup, but just like Jaxon said—I want my first death to be special.

I take one last deep breath and stand, smoothing the skirt down over my belly and hips. Check everything one last time.

And then I go downstairs to meet Jaxon.

He’s waiting for me in his creepy living room, standing in front of the empty fireplace. The mummies on the couch stare at me with their empty eyes.

Jaxon turns as I step into the doorway. He’s dressed up, too, in a dark if somewhat ill-fitting suit, like it was tailored for someone else. He pulled his hair back in a low ponytail, and he shaved off his stubble while I was getting ready.

For a minute, we just stare at each other. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. But then Jaxon breaks the silence.

“You look so beautiful,” he says softly.

His words catch me off guard, and I fumble around for a response. “Thank you,” I say, then add, “It’s the dress, mostly. Thanks for letting me?—”