The broken, ruthless part of my dead heart hummed in satisfaction when I stole her from the light to lure her into the darkness.
Which I did, my gaze fixed on the pajama bottoms she wore and the matching top, which was made out of the thinnest material I’ve ever felt beneath my fingertips.
How easy it would have been to strip it from her. A sharp tug on the shoulder strap would have snapped the seam, allowing me to twine it between my fingers like a lead I could control. I would have pinched the material between my fingers, listening for her husky gasp, before dragging it down. Down past the swell of her breast. Down past the hard bud of one dusky pink nipple. Down so far until the other strap broke free, too, exposing all of her to me. My lips on her flesh, my tongue driving her into a frenzy.
And if I’d done that—if I’d backed her up to my bed with the sole purpose of working my cock deep inside her—then there’d be no indecision.
Fucking Isla again would be infinitely more satisfying than betraying her trust.
“Christ.”
With a frustrated growl, I press my thumbs into my eye sockets.
A few strokes of the keyboard, that’s it. One search of Holyrood’s database and I’ll walk away—
“Knowing that she’s lied.”
Because that’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it.
Tonight, she eased the brakes on the fortress built around her. She let me scale her walls, one brick at a time, until we stood on equal ground, her gentle fingers caressing every one of my scars and my mind visualizing exactly what it is that she sees when she slips into bed at night and succumbs to slumber. And now I’ll be taking a sledgehammer to those bricks, smashing them all down at once, and stealing information that she hasn’t given me freely.
Information that she might never give me.
Without allowing myself any more time to hesitate, I turn on my heel. Plant a hand down on the desk and, with teeth gritted, reboot the computer.
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
The word thrums in my veins, turning ice to fire.
I’m aware of the darkness cloaking the room, the incessant drumming of my thumb on the keyboard as I load the browser and type in a name.
The page reloads.
An image pops up in the top right corner of the screen.
And then the air turns thin, practically nonexistent, as I feel my stomach plummet with the truth staring back at me in the form of a dark-haired man stationed behind a desk, much like the one I’m using, with university students gathered before him.
Ian Coney has brown eyes, not blue.
Which means the death haunting Isla at night doesn’t belong to the loyalist professor who wanted me dead. No, that honor belongs to someone else.
Someone with blue eyes.
Someone who stumbled back in shock after being murdered.
Someone whose identity Isla doesn’t want me to know.
27
Isla
“It’s been three days since Queen Mary University faced the most devastating domestic terrorist attack seen on a university campus in this century. The Metropolitan Police have not given up on the manhunt of prime suspect Saxon Priest, who authorities believe has fled—”
The telly turns black without warning, and I have only a second to prepare myself before I feel Saxon’s presence so acutely that I’m surprised the air around me doesn’t physically ripple with his arrival.
Though the tiny hairs on my arms do stand to attention like good little soldiers.
I shift on the sofa, tucking one leg under the other. Do my best to beat my battering heart into submission before seeking him out. “So, you’ve decided to emerge from your cave then? I feel honored.”
Saxon rounds the edge of the sofa, tossing the clicker onto the cushion beside me. “Is it a cave when I have fully operational electricity and running water at my disposal?”
Three days.
That’s how long Peter, Josie, and I have been stuck in this house. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Guy left the property sometime yesterday but Saxon has stayed. Or rather, he’s stayed away but remained in the house, like a ghost whom I hear stalking the halls at night though he never appears once the sun graces the horizon.
Against my better judgment, I soak up his brawny frame like I haven’t set eyes on him in years.
His dark hair is damp, slightly tangled, like he recently showered and forgot to comb through the strands. The stubble on his face has thickened, signaling the start of a full beard. He’s wearing a fitted short-sleeved shirt paired with soft, gray joggers that hug his arse when he hitches the material at the thighs and claims a seat on the coffee table.
Legs spread. Hands firm on his knees. Bare feet.
My skin warms, and it takes every ounce of strength to find the words to quip, “I couldn’t be sure, what with you avoiding the sun and all. Peter and I, we’ve been taking bets on whether you double as a vampire.”
“When I said that I bite, that’s not what I meant.”
“What? Fresh blood doesn’t do it for you?” I tease, hungering for the elusive quirk of his lips that he gifts me so sparingly.
I won’t dare admit it out loud but I’ve missed him.
This.
The aloofness that he wears like a second skin, which always makes me desperate to tear it to shreds and watch the man with a heart beat to the surface. The man who vowed he would let no harm come to me. The same man who stripped off his shirt, knowing that his scars reveal the harsh realities of his life, and knelt before me anyway.
Humbled. Vulnerable. Real.
Subdued humor flickers in his pale eyes before he lifts a hand, scrubbing it over his mouth. To hide a smile, perhaps—at least, that’s what I tell myself. “I think I spill enough blood without doing it for sport, too,” he rumbles.
“Sport, survival. Two sides of the same coin. Suppose it depends on your outlook.”
He tilts his head toward the blank telly. “And what do you say my outlook should be on that?”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. My gut clenches with the memory of what happened at The Octagon, and my thinly veiled good mood dissipates, as if I’ve snapped my fingers and demanded its destruction.
Three days of constant worry. Two sleepless nights of terrible dreams. Seventy-two hours to regret every decision that I’ve made in the last two months that has led me to this exact moment.
Sighing, I drop my head against the cushions. “You’re putting yourself at risk every moment that you stay here with us. That’s what I think. You should have left with your brother. Gotten out of the City.”
Saxon doesn’t move though his brows draw together. “I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
I hate that my stupid heart melts at his words.
“Yes, you did. But that was before we realized the entire city would be hunting you down.” Rising from the couch, I start for the windows that overlook quaint Lyme Street. The curtains are drawn, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to shine through. Hooking a finger around the fabric, I peel it aside. There are no police cruisers driving past. No signs of any neighbors either. Quiet. It’s all too quiet. Worry slicks through my veins. “How long until they find us here? Find you?”
“They won’t.”