I stay honest. “Grayson is more of an obstacle, more of a threat to us than Brewster. He needs to be removed.”
A spark of understanding lights her eyes as she stands before me. “If you get rid of Grayson, then you have to get rid of London.”
I nod once. “I’ve considered that.”
“She might be an innocent,” she says, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Sometimes, women can’t help who they fall for.”
I read too much into that statement. She notices, and glances away.
“Grayson, London, Brewster…” I trail off, my gaze dropping to her mouth, her body a seductive lure as she allows me to draw her seamless against me. “All obstacles have to be removed.”
After a tense heartbeat where we stand locked together, she finally connects with my gaze. “I’ll help you get rid of Grayson. I’ll help you remove all the obstacles. Then you’re going to fix me, Alex. Whatever the risk.”
I touch her cheek, skimming the backs of my fingers across her delicate skin. “That’s a cost too high.”
She grabs my hand. “That’s the price you pay for playing God.”
“We’ll see.”
“That’s the deal, Alex. Either you agree, or I walk away from all of this, from you—”
“I’ll agree to your terms,” I say, “but I need collateral. Something to ensure you won’t make a rash decision.”
She shakes her head. “Like what?”
“Like the switchblade,” I say, gauging her wary response. “I want the murder weapon.”
Realization opens her expression. Pushing her hands between us, she slides her palms up my bare chest to break us apart. “It’s the only evidence that will prove who killed Ericson.”
“It’s what we need to frame Brewster.” It’s what I need to ensure she’s never tied to the murder.
A moment of indecision, where she glances at the bedroom door, then she releases a resigned breath. “Fine.” She rubs her arm as she crosses to the living area, saying over her shoulder, “I didn’t feel safe leaving it in my apartment.” She digs through her bag.
A sprig of anger shoots up my spine, coiling my bones in tension. She’s had the evidence to put her away on her person this whole time. “That’s exceedingly dangerous, and selfish.”
Stalled in the bedroom doorframe, she cocks her head. “Oh, was I supposed to leave it in my apartment for you to steal? You’re right, how selfish of me.”
I walk toward her and hold out my hand. With stoic acceptance, she lays the plastic-wrapped knife in my palm.
“I’ll put it somewhere safe,” I say.
“Or, you can cut that fucking thing off your leg,” she counters.
I almost smile, hearing some of the tough Blakely slipping through her weakened cracks.
“Help me,” I ask her.
We look at each other, the insinuation clear I’m asking for more than her help with removing the watch.
“But obviously, not with this.” I set the switchblade aside on the dresser and head into the bathroom, returning with a roll of bandage and a razor blade.
“No wire cutters?” she says, sarcasm hedging her tone. “Damn. This is going to be painful.”
And it is painful. But not unbearable. As I lie on my back and observe, there is something so darkly erotic about watching Blakely wield a blade. The way she traps the corner of her lip between her teeth as she concentrates. How focused she is on the task, almost absorbed, never flinching with sympathy, never squeamish.
I might worry she’s experiencing some form of residual setback from the procedure, reverting to her former self—but it’s like watching a surgeon operate rather than a butcher dismember. Blakely is finding a way to channel her emotions to override the erratic extremes.
If she can utilize this strength for what comes next… I have to admit, it’s exciting me just thinking about it.
Once the offending object and its incessant ticking has been removed, Blakely stares at the clock face, some faraway look clouding her eyes, before she sets the razor blade on the nightstand.
She flips the antique Rolex over, inspecting the backing. “You should take it apart and see if there are any surprises waiting for when the clock strikes the looming hour.”
But I’m no longer interested in clocks or threats. I reach out and take the object from her hand, toss it on the bed. She’s braless under my shirt, and I swear she never looks sexier than when she’s wearing my clothes.
While she was removing the wires, I felt nothing—no pain, no tension, just the misery of being so near her, watching her nipples rub against the thin material as she worked, a tantalizing tease that I can’t touch her whenever I want.
Which is all the time.
I lift my hand to her face and use my thumb to clear away a smudge of dirt on her cheek. We’re still filthy from dirty sex in a dirty bathroom. “Take a shower with me,” I say.
Her eyes hold mine, my request loaded with far more heated desire than simply getting clean.
“Yes,” she breathes.
I want to taste that word on her lips.
Blood rushes to my groin. I lunge forward and tear the shirt over her head, then I have her in my arms and off the bed, carrying her to the bathroom.
As I reach for the wall switch, she catches my hand. “Leave the light off.”
I hesitate momentarily before moving toward the glass shower. Keeping her in my arms, I flip on the spray and wait for the water to warm.
She tentatively touches the fresh dressing over my hand. “How did this happen?”
I turn my gaze on her, absorbing how soft she looks in this moment. “I was saving what was important to me.”
She arches a brow in question.
“Your journal,” I say, holding her gaze.
I managed to save both journals. The one I kept on Subject 6, with all my recorded findings and sketches of Blakely, and the pages she wrote while being held captive—the ones I kept tucked in my journal.
But, even though her data was important, it was her pages I risked reaching into the fire to save, her thoughts I couldn’t bear to lose.
Somehow, as she studies my features, her eyes searing through my façade, I think she knows this.
She aims her attention on my hand and begins to remove the bandage. “You shouldn’t get this wet.”
After she drops the bandage, I set her feet to the floor. I meticulously peel the rest of her clothing away before I remove the other bandage wrapping my calf.
Her gaze tracks the bruises and scrapes along my chest. I can feel the raw claw marks that rake my back from her nails. My face bears the marks from her fist. We’re both covered in contusions and injuries—our bodies a canvas exhibiting passion and violence.
You can’t love the tormented and not accept their pain.
I drag her into the shower and kiss her under the rain of water, like I kissed her under the waterfall. I kiss her like I’m deprived of air, like I’m drowning, and she’s the only pocket of oxygen amid the water.
And she kisses me back with enough vengeance to rock a torrential storm.
The warm water stings the fresh cuts, my calf on fire as water cleanses the open wound, sending a swirl of pale-red blood around the shower base.