Chapter 17
Jiya
The lights are out.
I drop low, my breath held tight in my chest. My senses scramble for purchase in the sudden emptiness.
A soft scuff. Like the sound of a leather sole shifting on the hardwood floor near the fireplace.
Someone moved.
My blood runs cold. I’m not alone. I flatten myself to the floor, every nerve screaming. I am blind, unarmed, and pinned in place.
A low hum begins in the walls. The glow returns not in a flash, but as a slow, sickly tide, pushing the shadows back from the corners of the room.
My gaze travels up from Marcel’s crumpled form to the man standing over him.
Calloway.
He doesn’t move. He just watches me, his stillness a terrifying counterpoint to the chaos in my chest.
With a flick of his wrist, he ejects a needle from a small auto-injector, the click deafening in the quiet room. He pockets the device. The job is done.
“You,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“Following you,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing.
The casual arrogance of it is a spark to dry tinder. “Following me?” My laugh is a sharp, ugly crack in the silence. “You don’t get to interfere. You made your choice. You walked out. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know,” he says, and the quiet acceptance of my anger only infuriates me more. “I know I don’t have the right. But I saw the file on this guy, and then I saw you walk in here alone...”
Calloway stops and stares at me. His ice-blue eyes narrow slightly, head tilting.
“What?”
“Your hair. It’s brown.” His voice carries a hint of fascination, like he’s seeing a new side of me he hadn’t considered.
“A wig.” I reach up and pull it off in one smooth motion, shaking out my pink waves. The release of pressure against my scalp brings immediate relief. I run my fingers through my hair, working out the flatness.
His gaze follows the movement of my fingers, lingering on my face like he’s memorizing every detail. Heat creeps up my neck. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat.
Then his eyes drift past my shoulder, and the spell breaks.
We both stare down at Marcel, who lies face down on the expensive rug, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, chest still rising and falling in shallow breaths.
The personal anger between us evaporates, replaced by a shared, clinical focus on the body at our feet.
“The toddy?” Calloway asks.
I nod. “Untraceable. You?”
He holds up the syringe. “Same concept, different delivery method.”
We watch as another ragged breath shudders through Marcel’s frame. Well, apparently my dosage calculations don’t account for extra-large predators. Or maybe he didn’t finish his drink. Either way, he’s fading, so close enough.
I gesture to the body with a slight tilt of my head. “The floor is yours if you want to do your Gallery Killer thing. I won’t get in the way of your process.”
Calloway’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. “Can’t. I promised to lie low for a while.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Promised. To whom? A handler? A partner? The idea of Calloway Frost answering to anyone is a tectonic shift in my understanding of him.
He runs a hand over his face. “Forget it.”
I press on, circling the body to face him, forcing him to meet my gaze. “So you made a promise to a mystery person not to kill, but here you are, breaking it?”
He looks at me, and the words coming out are a low, intimate threat that prickles my skin. “I never promised not to kill. I promised the Gallery Killer would take a vacation. Without the signature, this is just another unfortunate accident.”
I gesture with my chin toward the unremarkable soon-to-be corpse. “But a simple cardiac arrest lacks your usual…flair.”
A slow, infuriating smile touches his lips. “Sometimes subtlety has its own elegance.”
“So, we both poisoned him?”
Calloway nods. “Guess so. Double dose.”
“So what’s the prognosis, Doctor?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does he die twice as fast, or do our poisons cancel each other out in some twisted chemistry experiment?”
“We’re in uncharted territory,” he admits, straightening up. He runs a hand through his hair, and I feel an involuntary tightening in my stomach.
I stare down at Marcel’s twitching form. “So we’re either the most efficient assassins in the world, or the dumbest.”
“Glad I could provide an assist.”
“An assist?” I scoff. “You blew my cover. This is like watching a prima donna fight over the spotlight.”
“I don’t fight for the spotlight,” Calloway says, his jaw tightening. “It finds me.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. “You probably color-code your sock drawer, don’t you?”
“Of course. By shade and material. Doesn’t everyone?”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “We’re standing over a man we just double-murdered, and you’re giving me laundry tips.”
“It’s about discipline,” he says, his gaze intense. “A quality that seemed to be absent when I found you. Or was his hand on your throat part of the plan?”
“It was a calculated risk!” I snap, crossing my arms. “I had him exactly where I wanted him.”
“Did you?” Calloway’s voice is a low, incredulous drawl. “Because it looked like he had you.”
“It’s called acting. I was luring him into a false sense of security. Something you would know nothing about, Mr. Sledgehammer.”
“I saw you struggle.” The words come out strangled, like they’re being torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His jaw works silently for a moment, muscles jumping beneath the skin. “I saw the look in your eyes when he—”
He turns away, his shoulders rigid, every line of his body screaming tension. When he faces me again, his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, haunted in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“No one should—” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. His breathing becomes shallow, erratic. “It won’t happen again. Not to you.”
Both hands rake through his hair, leaving it disheveled. The words seem to tangle in his throat. “You don’t understand. You can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I demand, frustration boiling over. “Can’t take care of myself? Can’t handle my own missions? What exactly is it you think I can’t do?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You know what? I don’t have to explain my methods to you. We need to figure out what to do with him.”
Calloway takes a breath, visibly pulling himself together. He crosses his arms, and the familiar gesture seems to restore some of his composure. The fabric of his suit strains across his biceps, and I force my eyes away.
“We could wait,” he suggests, a flicker of dark humor in his eyes. “See which poison wins.”
“Or we could flip a coin. Heads, your poison gets credit. Tails, mine does.”
“This isn’t a competition.”
“Isn’t it?” I step closer, tilting my head to look up at him. “You show up at my kill, with your fancy syringe and your artistic vision, acting like you own the place.”
“I don’t act like I own anything.” His voice drops to a silky tone that makes my pulse quicken. “I simply execute my plan.”
“Execute my plan,” I mimic in an exaggerated posh accent. “Do you hear yourself? You sound like you’re narrating a documentary about serial killers.”
“Better than sounding like I learned murder from a YouTube tutorial.”
“YouTube tutorial?” My voice rises an octave. “I’ll have you know my methods are—”
A wet, guttural groan from the floor cuts me off.
Marcel lurches to his feet, a primal roar tearing from his throat. His eyes are blown wide with agony and rage. He snatches a heavy bronze statue from the side table and swings it in a vicious arc.
“Calloway, look out!”
The sickening crack of metal against skull fills the room as the statue connects with Calloway’s temple. Calloway’s eyes go wide before they roll back into his head. He drops to the floor like a marionette with cut strings; the syringe skittering across the hardwood.
“You think you’re so clever,” Marcel snarls, his voice a ragged, wet sound. Spittle flies from his lips as he whirls on me. “You can’t fool me.”
I scramble backward, but my heel catches on the thick edge of the rug. My arms windmill, a clumsy, desperate fight for balance that costs me precious seconds.
He lunges.
His body slams into mine, the impact driving the air from my lungs. We crash to the floor, his weight a crushing, suffocating presence. His hands find my throat, fingers digging in with a brutal efficiency. The pressure is absolute.
How is he so strong?
My vision tunnels, darkness creeping in from the edges. I claw at his hands, nails digging deep enough to draw blood, but his grip doesn’t loosen. My legs kick beneath his weight.
The world narrows to the pain in my throat and the hateful face above me. His eyes bulge with effort and rage; veins stand out like cords on his forehead. My lungs are on fire.
I reach blindly, fingers scrambling against the floor, searching for anything I can use. Nothing. Only smooth hardwood and the edge of the rug.
Black spots dance in the shrinking tunnel of my vision. My movements become sluggish, my limbs heavy with my body’s final, desperate protest. Marcel’s face blurs, his victorious smile the last thing I will ever see.
This is it. Not a bullet, not a blade. Just this.
Marcel’s eyes gleam with victory, his lips pulled back in a snarl of triumph. He leans in, watching the life drain from my face with sick fascination.
A shadow appears behind him.
I gasp, the last ragged pull of air clawing at my chest. He leans closer still, his breath hot and foul against my cheek. “I could do anything to you right now. And I will.”
A floorboard creaks. He turns—
Silver flashes in the dim light.
The elegant point of a letter opener disappears into Marcel’s left eye with a sound like a thumb pushing through a ripe plum. A wet, sickening pop as Calloway, his face a mask of cold fury, drives it to the hilt.
Marcel’s scream is a high, animal sound that rips through the room and then chokes off.
Blood erupts from the socket in a hot spray, painting his face, the floor.
He claws at the silver handle protruding from his eye, his wails dissolving into wet, gurgling sounds. His body convulses, a grotesque, twitching dance before he collapses sideways.
I drag in a ragged, burning breath, my throat raw. I scramble away from the body, pressing myself against the wall, watching as Calloway stands over the corpse, his chest rising and falling.
He nudges Marcel with the toe of his shoe. “Well,” he says, his voice perfectly level, “there goes subtlety.”
His gaze finds mine, and his attention shifts from the corpse to my huddled form against the wall.
I clutch my throat.
“Fuck. Let me see.” His voice carries genuine concern, surprising me.
He kneels beside me, his fingers brushing mine as he pulls my hand away from my neck. The touch is an electric current on my hypersensitive skin.
“How bad?” He studies the damage, his expression darkening at whatever marks Marcel left behind.
I try to speak, but only a dry rasp escapes. I can only stare at him—at his beautiful, impossible face, now streaked with his own blood, a crimson trail from temple to jaw. In the dim emergency light, he looks like one of his own installations.
“You’re bleeding,” I manage, my voice a raw croak.
He touches his temple, his fingers coming away wet. His eyes widen slightly, as if he’s only just now aware of the injury.
“It’s nothing,” he says, dismissing his wound with a casual shrug. “Just a scratch.”
His fingers move to my neck again, tracing the tender skin with a delicacy that seems impossible from the same hands that just drove a letter opener through a man’s eye.
“The bruising is already starting,” he murmurs. “You’ll need ice. And a scarf.”
I nod, unable to tear my eyes from his.
A drop of blood slides down his temple, tracing the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Without thinking, I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb.
His breath hitches.
Something inside me breaks. A dam of adrenaline, fear, and a terrifying, overwhelming relief.
“You saved my life,” I whisper, the words scratching my raw throat.
I don’t know if it’s the blood, the survival, or the desperate need to feel something other than terror. I reach for him. My fingers curl into the blood-matted hair at the nape of his neck, and I pull his mouth to mine.
He hesitates for a single, sharp heartbeat before his hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. Then he kisses me back.
His lips part mine, and I taste blood. His other hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, holding me to him.
What began as a desperate, grateful act transforms into a raw, consuming hunger. My fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer until his body presses me against the wall.
The kiss becomes wild, a frantic, passionate collision. My hands map the hard planes of his shoulders, the strong column of his neck. His tongue moves against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees weak. We are two survivors, clinging to each other in the wreckage.
Calloway breaks the kiss, his lips trailing a hot path along my jaw to my neck. His breath ghosts across my bruised skin, and I gasp. My head falls back against the wall, giving him access.
“When I saw his hands on you, I’ve never wanted to kill a man more.”
His tongue traces the outline of a bruise, the gentle, wet heat an agony and a balm. A shiver racks my body. It’s part pain, part pleasure, entirely overwhelming.
“You have the same darkness in you that I do,” he whispers, his voice filled with a terrible, beautiful understanding. “You’re so beautiful.”
My throat tightens at the reverence in his tone. No one has ever looked at me the way he does now. Like I’m a weapon and a treasure, all at once.
“So are you,” I whisper back, my fingers stroking through his hair.
His hands slide down my sides, gripping my hips, the pressure of his fingertips sending sparks across my skin.
“You’re bleeding on me,” I murmur against his temple.
He tries to back off.
“No,” I say, pulling his mouth back to mine. “Don’t stop. Ruin me.”