Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
I t’s only because I can’t sleep that I catch the five am special news report which interrupts some entirely un-relatable celebrity reality show that’s predictable as hell. In my tired haze, it takes me a few seconds to realize what’s happening on screen. By the time I do mentally tune in, the stern-looking woman on the screen is halfway into what she’s saying.
“—in a gruesome scene this morning. There are no leads so far, and his estranged wife has not released any statement. We ask the community to respect the loss of one of our finest, as Detective Mike Trudeau served over a dozen years with Akron law enforcement.”
I stare blankly at the television, listening as the news anchor proceeds to mention how the police suspect gang involvement with the detective’s death. She then reassures her viewers that despite the murders in Hayden Fields lately, this one took place in Akron, so no one should worry about it becoming a spree.
My hands feel numb as I get to my feet, and I barely manage to text Lou before I’m outside and waiting for an Uber to take me home. Since, as far as I know, my car is still at Sophie’s house from last night.
Shivering in my hoodie, I fiddle with my phone, considering texting Cass but ultimately not doing it. Not yet . But the minutes pass like hours, even though I know it can’t be more than eight minutes before my car rolls up.
I barely register when the driver greets me, and I don’t say a word on the fifteen minute trip back to my mom’s house.
“Thanks,” I manage to murmur, when I step out of the car. Whatever the driver says is lost in the fog of my mind, and only when I’m up on the small porch do I realize my car is in the driveway. Probably thanks to Cass, if I were to guess.
After all, it’s not like the friendly neighborhood detective is around to do me any favors.
Gazing at the door, I stare at the handle before reaching for it, somehow knowing it won’t be locked like it should be. Sure enough, the door swings open easily. I step inside, eyes fixed on the floor where traces of crimson footprints show me the path the killer took through the house.
Naturally, that path leads me up the stairs. I follow the prints, covering them with my shoes as I go, like I’m trying to walk the exact same way he had, down to the centimeter. The cream carpet makes the traces visible in the near-dark, and I’m suddenly grateful for the nightlights I jammed into the hallway sockets after falling up and down the staircase of the usually empty house enough times.
My door is open, but it’s too dark in my room for me to see anything. Instead, it feels like the darkness is unnatural, like a black hole swallowing everything that enters.
But I enter anyway, barely pushing the door any more open than it already is. Finally, thanks to the light from the bay window near my bed, I see a huddled figure on the bench. But I don’t say a word, and I certainly don’t turn the light on.
Everything seems so surreal as I kick off my shoes and yank off the hoodie I’m still wearing. It’s warm and soft, and absently I consider telling him it’s mine now
Not that I think my killer will mind.
When I’m left in my t-shirt and shorts I move to the bed, sitting on the side facing him with my legs curled up under me as I survey him with only the pre-dawn light to go by.
Cassian looks tired . Leaning over with his hands clasped, I can see him twiddling his thumbs together silently, though from what I can see, he isn’t looking at me.
“Virgil told me to shower,” he whispers finally without looking at me. “He said you might not enjoy the blood all over the house.” At last he lifts his head, and I can feel his gaze on me in the dark, even though I can’t see his eyes. “I didn’t shower, but I did rinse my hands and face.”
For a few moments, I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say. A low breath leaves me, and I get to my feet to take a step toward him, one hand out. “Cass…”
He catches my hand, surprising me when he stands up as well. “No,” he murmurs. “I like you on the bed. With me.” Without asking, he pushes me back down, crawling over me on the sheets until his knees are on either side of my hips and his hands are splayed by my face.
I swear I can smell the blood on him. I certainly feel it when I lift my hand up to trail my fingers through his dark-matted hair. It’s dry now, but sticks to his curls like gel.
“How’d you do it?” I ask softly, feeling as if it’s wrong to break the early morning silence.
“I tore him apart.” Cass leans down, his lips brushing my forehead.
“He let Reagan go on purpose.” That’s not a question. I’ve known since last night what he did.
And maybe, just maybe, I knew why Cass didn’t come to the hospital with me since long before the news anchor mentioned the detective’s murder.
“I know. That’s why I made it slow.” His hand grips my shirt, and he proceeds to gently tug it over my head before wrapping his long fingers around the base of my throat. “He thought she’d shoot me.”
“He was wrong.”
“I made sure he knew how wrong he was.” Leaning down, he kisses me. Sweetly at first, with his tongue begging for entrance in my mouth. When I do part my lips for him, I swear I can taste the blood, the iron on his lips.
On his tongue.
On his teeth.
When Cass pulls away, I’m panting. My fingers itch to remove his shirt, and I yank it over his head much less gently than he had for me.
“You’re a serial killer.”
He chuckles at the words, tilting his head. “I’m a serial killer,” he agrees.
“You didn’t have to kill Trudeau.” But there’s no malice, no real reproach in my words. I find I don’t care at all, quite honestly. And I certainly don’t pity the dead detective. Cassian chuckles darkly, his fingers once more tightening possessively on my neck.
“I’ll kill anyone for you. Do you love me?” The question surprises me, especially after our joking conversation last night.
I want to ask where the six steps went.
I want to ask what happens when I say no.
Instead I sit up, surprised when he lets me, and shove Cass until he’s on his back and I can stare down at him, finally able to see his gorgeous blue eyes in the dawn light.
He’s beautiful. Like a Renaissance painting come to life with his full lips and impossibly blue eyes. His hair, even sticky with blood, is nearly picture perfect and almost golden in the first rays of the sun.
“You should know the answer to that,” I say at last, and this time I’m the one who reaches down to press my fingers lightly to his throat. Cass arches back, giving me all the access to his vulnerable, flawless skin that I could want. I stroke along his neck, feeling him swallow under my touch.
“I don’t.” He sounds almost unsure of himself, and a little sheepish. “That’s the one thing I can’t quite read about you, Winnie.”
Taking a breath, I try to push away how my heart flutters nervously. How everything in me feels different when I’m around him.
How he feels like home .
“I’ve always loved you.” I whisper the words, almost afraid to admit them for the world to hear. “You made sure I did. Ever since we were kids, I think—No.” I let out a sigh. “I’ve always known. How could I love anyone other than you?”
His chin jerks back down, eyes wide in surprise. “Really?” He sounds…bemused. But his hands come up, hovering over me, before he cups my face in his hands. “ Always , always, or just since I came back?”
Now it’s my turn for my fingers to tighten, and I let him pull me down until I’m pressed against his warmth. I can feel the still-there blood making his hands rough as they slide along my cheeks, but I don’t care that he apparently needs lessons in handwashing.
“Always,” I repeat, my lips brushing against his. “Always, since you made sure no one bullied me in school.” I press my forehead against his and inhale our shared air. “You’ve never been able to make me hate you. Not even when you had a knife at my throat and you told me to run.”
“You know I would’ve done it, right? I would’ve killed your dad for you.” His hands slide over my shoulders, fingers dragging down my back to unhook my bra before he chucks it to the floor and pulls me against him. God, I love his warmth. I love the way my body fits against his, and how he feels perfect everywhere we’re touching.
“I know.” My fingers fumble at his jeans, but he stops me by flipping us back over so he can raise himself above me and meet my gaze.
“I’ll kill for you.”
“I know.” I can’t look away from his gorgeous eyes.
“I won’t be able to always stop myself.” His fingers curl around my jaw, and he slowly lowers his face to mine until I can feel his breath on my lips.
“I know.”
“And I’ll never let you go, Winnie.”
Slowly, I twine my arms around his neck, dragging him the rest of the way down. Just before I pull him into a kiss, I sigh against his mouth, whispering against his lips.
“I know.”