Chapter 15 #3
Something dark and hungry flashes in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Then he releases me and steps back, running a hand through his hair.
“No,” he says, his voice rough. “This isn’t happening.”
Anger flares within me, hot and sudden. “Why? Is it me? Am I not your type?”
“That’s not—”
“Because you seemed plenty interested when I was watching you in your studio.” The words fly out before I can stop them.
He freezes. “What?”
“I was there,” I admit. “In your studio. I saw you... pleasuring yourself. Saying my name.”
Color floods his cheeks. “You broke into my studio?”
“I was trying to find evidence. To prove you were The Gallery Killer.” I cross my arms. “I watched you. And I heard you say my name when you came.”
His expression hardens. “So you were spying on me at my most private moment, and now you’re using that to what? Manipulate me into helping you kill someone?”
Put that way, it sounds terrible. “No, I—”
“You what, Jiya?” He advances on me, and I back up until I hit the wall. “You thought you’d use sex to get what you want? Just like you tried at the bar? Like you do with all the others?”
“That’s not fair,” I hiss, shoving at his chest. “You know that wasn’t me. That was the drug.”
“And this?” He gestures between us. “What’s your excuse now? Strategy? Tactics?”
“Maybe I just want you!” The admission bursts from me like a gunshot.
He stills, his eyes searching mine. “You tried to kill me multiple times.”
“And I’m attracted to you, anyway. Sue me.” I push him again, but he doesn’t budge. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve made it clear you’re not interested.”
“I didn’t say that.” His voice drops lower.
“Then what are you saying?”
He braces one hand against the wall beside my head, caging me in without touching me. “I’m saying I can’t give you what you want.”
“You don’t even know what I want.”
“I know I’m not what you need.” His eyes are intense, almost fevered. “I’m broken, Jiya. I don’t... I can’t...”
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This is The Gallery Killer, the man who arranges bodies into art. And yet he’s looking at me like I could destroy him with a single word.
“I don’t believe that,” I whisper.
“Believe it,” he says. “I don’t do relationships. I don’t do normal. And I sure as hell don’t do murder partnerships with beautiful women.”
Frustration boils over. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him to me, our faces inches apart. “You’re a coward, Calloway Frost.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Careful.”
“Or what?” I taunt. “You’ll kill me? We both know you won’t.”
His expression turns tormented, almost pained. “I’m supposed to kill you.”
The words hang between us like a blade.
“Supposed to by who?”
He looks away, jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t. Who told you to kill me?”
“I can’t—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Just drop it, Jiya.” His hand slides to my throat, but there’s no real threat in it. “Don’t test me.”
The warning in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly. I press into his touch, defiant.
“Okay. Then I could use your help with my target,” I say, my voice steady despite the hammering of my pulse. “He’s protected. Strong.”
“No.” His thumb traces the line of my jaw, contradicting his words. “And you shouldn’t either.”
I push against him, my frustration physical now. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? You do this all the time.”
“Because I don’t want your blood on my hands!” The words explode from him, his control slipping.
I freeze, staring up at him. “What?”
He steps back, his composure fracturing. “I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“Since when do you care about risk?” I follow him, grabbing his arm to stop his movement. “You kill predators. He’s a predator.”
“It’s different.” He won’t meet my eyes.
“How? How is it different?” I demand.
His gaze snaps to mine, intense and burning. “Because I don’t care if I die, but I care if you do!”
The confession hangs between us, raw and unexpected. In the silence that follows, I can hear the rapid beat of my heart, the shallow rhythm of his breathing.
“Calloway...”
His lips crash against mine with a desperate hunger that steals my breath. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as his body pins mine against the kitchen wall.
I melt into him, every nerve ending on fire. My hands clutch at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. A small, broken sound escapes my throat as his tongue slides against mine.
This is nothing like the calculated seductions I’ve performed over the years. There’s no strategy here, no endgame beyond the urgent need to be closer. My legs feel like they might give out beneath me.
He kisses like a drowning man finding air. Rough and hard and demanding. His hand at the small of my back presses me tighter against him, and the heat of his body seeps through our clothes. The hard line of his cock presses against my thigh.
“Calloway,” I gasp.
My fingers find their way under his shirt, desperate for the feel of skin against skin. His muscles tense beneath my touch.
I want more. I want all of him. I want to consume and be consumed until there’s nothing left of either of us but ashes.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, he pulls away. His eyes are wide, stunned, as if he can’t believe what he just did.
“I can’t,” he breathes, backing toward the door. “I can’t help you. You’re on your own.”
“Calloway, wait—”
But he’s already gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoes through my empty apartment.
I’m left alone in my kitchen, my lips still burning from his kiss, my body aching with want and confusion.
I press my palms against my eyes, hating the sting of tears that threatens.
Fuck him. And fuck me for letting him get under my skin. I’m going to kill Durand on my own.