My Violent Valentine

By Kitty Thomas

“Oh. My. God... this little series is getting more unhinged as we go and I am here for it.” –ScarletFix, Goodreads

What is Brian hiding from me? What terrible truth do I not know?

The ominous warning of The Tower hangs between us, threatening to topple us to our doom.
I look for the answers behind the veil, asking fate to spill forth its secrets so that I can somehow save us before it’s too late.
And yet the sands keep falling through the hourglass as time races faster and faster, pushing us to our certain end.

This is the FINAL novella in Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits. This series is complete. HEA guaranteed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kitty Thomas
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781960480545

Kitty Thomas

KITTY THOMAS writes dark sexy stories that play with power. She is the author of Comfort Food, published in early 2010, and considered the Original dark romance.To find out FIRST when a new book comes out, subscribe to Kitty's New Release List: KITTYTHOMAS.COM

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MINA

6a.m. Groundhog Day.

The alarm blares, and I roll over to turn it off. Brian has finally started setting it, and now I wish I’d never asked because he apparently gets up at stupid-o-clock before it’s even light outside. Who does that? I mean besides all the normal people with normal jobs out in the real world. Either way, I stand by the idea that no one should ever get up this early—unless by force. Especially in the winter.

Also, why are the blankets so much more comfortable after you’ve been cocooned in them for hours? It’s all so unfair. This world might be Hell.

Brian’s arm snakes around my waist as he snuggles in closer to me. Don’t forget your booties cause it’s cold outside today, he says pressing a kiss to the side of my throat just above my collar.

It’s cold every day, I reply.

He just chuckles against my hair. Fun fact about Brian: Somehow this stone-cold sociopathic killer knows every single line in the movie Groundhog Day.

He sits up and grabs the remote off the side table to turn on the TV. I can’t believe he even remembers it’s Groundhog Day. What internal mental workings could possibly explain waking up every single day instantly alert and knowing what day it is? I’m sure this is a serial killer trait.

Let’s find out what the little forest rat has to say about our future, Brian says.

I thought you didn’t believe in fate, I groan, pulling the blankets back over my head.

I do when it involves weather.

Brian turns it to the local weather station where they’re streaming the Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania weather report. After the movie released, this poor small town was swamped with tourists, and it only seems to get bigger every year. This strikes me as bizarre. I mean, who wants to travel in all that cold and snow just to watch a rodent forecast the weather? Then again, people travel to stand out in the cold surrounded by millions of people to count down to a one-second holiday in adult diapers. People have strange fascinations.

It’s way too early in the morning for this. It’s gotta still be dark there. We both watch as six more weeks of winter is predicted, and I’m sure this is last year’s telecast. Maybe it’s a slow news day. There’s a blonde I swear I recognize in an obnoxiously loud fuchsia sweatshirt.

"You know, I think the start of spring actually is in six weeks?" Brian says conversationally, turning to me.

I swear, if you quote another line from that movie…

But before I can come up with a proper threat, Brian says, If this floor wasn’t so fucking cold, and the guns weren’t so many steps away, I’d shoot the TV right now for this goddamned prediction.

Okay, Elvis, I say. You didn’t have to watch it.

Brian half growls as he gets up and starts getting dressed.

But then, the local news station guy comes on and says: That was last year’s prediction. Stay tuned for the livestream of this year’s forecast at seven-thirty Eastern time.

I knew it!

Brian rolls his eyes at this fake out. It’s one of the disconcerting things about waking up in an underground room with no windows. Even though we both know intellectually that six a.m. is just way too early for a groundhog to see a theoretical shadow, we’re more willing to believe the TV when we don’t have any other daylight signals.

Can we negotiate about this alarm? I say. You have an internal alarm, and I didn’t know you’d be getting up at Vampire Coffin Time every day.

What the fuck is Vampire Coffin Time?

You know… the time vampires need to be in their coffins just to be safe.

You made that up.

I did not. Okay, I really did, but my logic is sound.

I’m going to go run, he says. And no, you asked for the alarm, you get the alarm. Look on the bright side, at least you won’t miss the breakfast spread anymore.

I sigh. I do love the breakfast spread.

When Brian goes back upstairs, I burrow back under the covers and fall asleep again. I jolt awake and turn to the clock to make sure I haven’t missed breakfast and let out a relieved sigh when I learn it’s only nine-thirty. Only nine-thirty in the middle of winter.

Great.

I just want to hibernate through this whole ordeal. I was not designed for winter and enjoy absolutely nothing about it. Even snow. I can watch snow on TV, thank you very much. I don’t need to be in an arctic tundra to have this magical experience.

I scoot up in bed to find a note in Brian’s handwriting. It reads, Six more weeks, Killer.

That fucking groundhog. I looked it up, and the groundhog has only predicted early spring twenty-one times since 1886 when this ridiculous tradition started.

Brian must have caught the real groundhog weather prognostication while I was sleeping. There are no bullet holes in the TV at least. I admire that level of restraint in a man.

1

BRIAN

Ilike to have a schedule. A solid morning routine. There are two types of people in this world who have a solid routine… social media influencers… and serial killers. I don’t really think of myself as a serial killer though. Serial killers aren’t ambitious enough. I mean, why not monetize your passion? Why live in a trailer out in the sticks surrounded by far too much taxidermy, when you can live well and make solid money from your natural blood lust?

I get it… sometimes we have a type and an OCD-level ritual about it, but get some cognitive behavioral therapy guys... and evolve. You make more money that way. If I only killed women who looked like or somehow reminded me of Linda, I wouldn’t have the nice life I have today.

Maybe I don’t obsess about the latest designer whatever, but the truth is, I do like nice things no matter how much I may deny it to myself and others. Maybe I can’t bring myself to spend that much money to buy a Patek Phillippe. Maybe I try to convince myself the Longines watch on my wrist was specifically for a job, and I wear it only as a trophy. Or maybe I’m trying to slowly acclimate myself to nicer things, which is probably closer to the real truth.

Congratulate me on my growing self-awareness.

I want to give Mina nice things. And god knows I have plenty of money sitting in banks and investments all over the world—especially since I’ve been able to take higher and higher contracts, and my reputation has grown among the evil and unsavory. So why not use some of it? Why not have nice things? In the endless mental scrolling of the list of things I fear Mina will get tired of eventually, her figuring out that my lack of materialism is really just down to laziness is now on that list. And maybe I think if I start driving a sexier car and wear nicer clothes, I’ll look and feel less like a wild animal. Then maybe I’ll feel worthy of her, and the bone deep fear that I’ll lose her someday will go away.

Every morning I get up at six a.m. Mina is usually still sleeping at this time—at least before I granted her wish and set the alarm. And I guarantee she went right back to sleep as soon as I left.

I actually kind of like that she sleeps late. It lets me get more things done and have some Me Time. I like having a partner in crime, but sometimes I like to plan alone. I like to run on the treadmill alone. I like to think alone. I’m not exactly the most social guy.

So I get up at six, do a quick run on the treadmill, slip back downstairs to take a shower and get dressed, and then by seven-thirty every morning I’m across the street from Uncle Martin’s house with a large black coffee to spy