Chapter 31
Jiya
Adeep yawn cracks my jaw. The adrenaline has vanished, leaving a leaden weight in my limbs. I’m boneless on the living room carpet, surrounded by the wreckage of our game—a splintered chair, glittering shards of glass, a lemon against the wall.
“Tired?” Calloway’s voice is a low rumble beside me. His thumb brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead.
“Mmm,” is all I can manage. My eyelids are too heavy.
His gaze softens, the sharp edges of the killer blurring into something else. He studies the carpet burns on my knees, on my forearm, the exhaustion in my face. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Before I can protest, he hooks one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, lifting me from the floor.
The world tilts, then steadies. His chest is a solid wall, his heartbeat a steady, thrumming rhythm against my ear.
I drop my head to his shoulder and breathe him in—sandalwood, sweat, and my man.
“I can walk,” I murmur into his skin, not making any move to leave his arms.
“I know you can.” He navigates the debris field of my living room. “But you don’t have to.”
The bathroom door swings open. He holds me with one arm while the other twists the shower knob. A hiss of water echoes off the tile. Steam clouds the mirror. He tests the spray with his hand until a satisfied grunt escapes him, then steps in, carrying me with him.
He sets me down, letting the warm water cascade over us. It sluices over my skin, washing away the sweat and the fight. His hands, the same hands that create masterpieces and end lives, begin to wash me. His palms glide over my skin, a slow, reverent exploration.
“Turn,” he says, his voice quiet under the rush of the water.
I obey, my back to him. His fingers map the scrapes and bruises we inflicted on each other. They pause over my shoulder blades. “You’ll have bruises here.”
“Worth it,” I reply.
He works shampoo into my hair, his fingertips massaging my scalp in slow, deliberate circles. A low hum of pleasure vibrates in my chest. It’s a different kind of nakedness, a shocking, profound intimacy that steals the air from my lungs.
He carries me from the steam-filled bathroom into the cool, quiet dark of the bedroom. Moonlight paints a silver rectangle on the far wall. He doesn’t drop me onto the mattress but sets me down on the edge with a slow, deliberate care.
The bed gives under my weight, a soft surrender. I sit there, wrapped in the towel, my feet dangling just above the floor.
His gaze sweeps over the angry red marks on my knees and elbows, his jaw tight. “Moisturizer,” he says.
I nod toward the nightstand. “Top drawer.”
He turns, opens the drawer, and his hand closes around a simple black bag. He pulls it out, his expression questioning.
A slow, wicked smile curves my lips. “Not that one,” I say, my voice laced with amusement.
He pauses, the bag dangling from his fingers.
“That’s…something else,” I add, letting the words hang in the air between us.
His eyes flick from the bag to my face, a flicker of understanding in his gaze. He doesn’t ask. He places the bag back in the drawer and retrieves the correct bottle.
He returns, but he doesn’t stand over me. Instead, with a grace that seems impossible for a man his size, he sinks to his knees on the carpet before me, bringing his eyes level with mine.
He unscrews the cap, his movements precise. He squeezes a dollop of white cream onto his fingertips. His gaze is intense, focused, the way an artist studies a canvas before the first stroke.
His touch is gentle when it comes. The cool cream is a shock against my hot, abraded skin, but his fingers are warm.
He works the lotion into the raw skin of my knees, his thumbs moving in slow, soothing circles.
He doesn’t rush. He tends to each scrape on my elbows, each mark on my chest where the carpet bit into me, with the same meticulous attention he’d give to his photographs.
I watch the top of his blond head, my breath caught in my throat.
This man, who now knows I keep secrets in my nightstand, who took me with such brutal, claiming force just minutes ago, is now on his knees, tending to the damage he inflicted.
It’s not an apology. It’s something else. An act of ownership. An act of worship.
“Better?” he asks, his eyes meeting mine.
“Much.”
He pulls back the covers, an invitation into the cool, clean space of the bed. I let the towel drop to the floor and slide between the sheets, my body a single, heavy ache. He stands by the bedside.
“Stay,” I say, patting the space beside me.
He nods once and slides in, the mattress dipping under his weight. His body is a furnace against mine. He pulls me back against his chest, his arm settling over my waist, a solid, warm weight.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.
“Perfect,” I murmur, my eyes already closed.
His arm tightens, tucking my head under his chin.
“Mine,” he murmurs into my hair, a final, definitive claim. “My beautiful killer.”
I’m on the edge of sleep, drifting in the warm, safe dark, when his voice pulls me back.
“It took me years,” he whispers, the words a ghost against my hair. “Before I could…be with anyone.”
My eyes flutter open. The confession lands with the weight of a physical blow, chasing the exhaustion away. I lie still, my breathing even, afraid to let him know I’m awake.
“And even then…” A shaky breath expands his chest against my back. “It was always impersonal. No names. No staying the night.” His fingers, resting on my hip, tighten. “I had to be in full control. It was just a physical need. An itch that had to be scratched.”
He shifts, propping himself on an elbow. I turn my head on the pillow to meet his eyes. In the dim light, his face is all shadows, his expression raw.
“Physically, it always worked. I always came. But the second it was over, I wanted out. Out of their bed, out of my own skin.” He looks down at where our bodies are tangled together under the sheets. “Tonight, I don’t want to leave. I don’t want this to end. I’m not spent. I feel…full.”
His throat works as he swallows, waiting for my response.
I reach up, touch his face. “I feel it too,” I tell him, holding his gaze. “All of it. Not just the sex, though that’s...” I can’t help the small smile that spreads across my face. “Well, obviously that’s pretty fantastic. But I love this too.”
Relief washes over his face, softening the hard lines. He lowers himself back down, pulling me flush against him again.
“It’s hard to trust anyone,” he says, his voice a low vibration against my back, “when you can’t tell them who you are.”
“How can you?” I agree, shifting to look at him over my shoulder. “You’re holding back the biggest part of yourself. You build a wall, and then you forget how to open the door. I did the same.”
His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip. “The small talk is excruciating. ‘What do you do for fun?’ ‘Oh, you know. Arrange pedophiles into artistic death tableaux. How about you?’”
A laugh bursts from my chest, sharp and real. “God, I know. ‘How was your weekend?’ ‘Pretty good. Spent Saturday researching untraceable poisons and Sunday staging a suicide. It was relaxing.’”
His smile is a slash of white in the darkness. “And they wonder why you ghost them.”
“Exactly.” I turn in his arms, our noses almost touching, and rest my palm over his heart. The beat is strong and steady under my hand. “It’s the loneliest feeling in the world. Being surrounded by people who have no idea who you really are.”
“Until now,” he says, his fingers finding mine, lacing them together.
“Until now.”
His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “It’s nice.”
“Nice?” I tease, my voice a low murmur. “That’s the best you can do? The renowned artist with his impressive vocabulary?”
His lips quirk. “Revolutionary. Unprecedented. Paradigm-shifting.”
“Better,” I whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Though I was thinking more like ‘terrifying.’”
“That too,” he admits, his arm tightening around me, pulling me so close I can feel the thrum of his words through his bones. “Terrifying in the best possible way.”
Sleep. Deep and dreamless, the first I’ve had in months, feels like a heavy, warm blanket over my mind. Then, a sound—sharp and insistent—drags me back.
My eyes crack open to the gray pre-dawn light. My limbs are heavy, tangled with his under the sheets. The sound comes again, a fist against wood, and this time it registers. It’s real.
The body next to me is already untangling itself. Calloway slides from the bed in one silent, fluid motion, instantly awake, instantly assessing the threat. He moves like a predator disturbed, every muscle coiled.
“Have another boyfriend you didn’t tell me about?”
The knocking comes again, harder this time, rattling the door in its frame.
My bare feet hit the cold floor. “No one comes here,” I whisper back, my mind racing. I grab some clothes from a drawer, hopping as I pull them on. “Especially not at…” I glance at the clock. Seven-o-two in the morning.
Another volley of knocks. I press my finger to my lips and edge toward the door. Calloway nods, gathering his scattered clothes.
At the peephole, I peer out into the hallway. My blood turns to ice.
The distorted, fish-eye view of the hallway shows a familiar figure. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun, her face set in the impassive, patient mask of law enforcement.
Detective Ramirez.
An icy fist closes around my stomach. I stumble back from the door, my mind a white-hot blank. Calloway is there, shirt half-buttoned, his eyes questioning.
“Ramirez,” I mouth, the name a puff of air.
He freezes. Every muscle in his body goes rigid. “Here?”
“She must have followed you,” I whisper.
“No. I’m clean. No one followed me,” he whispers back.
“Ms. Kline?” Ramirez’s voice cuts through the wood, sharp and clear. “Boston PD. Open the door.”
We both flinch. The sound of her voice inside my apartment makes the threat real, immediate.
“She can’t find you here,” I say, my voice low and urgent.
A dark understanding passes over his face. He doesn’t argue. He finishes buttoning his shirt, grabs his shoes.
“Bedroom,” I command in a whisper, pointing. “Closet. Don’t make a sound.”
He gives me one last look, a silent promise and a warning, then vanishes back into the bedroom without a whisper of sound. I force a breath into my lungs, schooling my features into a mask of sleepy confusion, and pull the front door open.
“Detective Ramirez,” I say, injecting surprise into my voice. “It’s so early.”
She doesn’t smile. Her eyes are flat, chips of stone. Behind her, two uniformed officers flank the doorway. One is already snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves, the sound a sharp, clinical snap in the quiet hall.
“Jiya Kline?” she asks, though she clearly knows the answer.
“Yes?”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Elisha Briggs.”
The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush. The hallway seems to warp, stretching into a long, dark tunnel with Ramirez at the end.
Elisha Briggs. The hedge fund manager whose father’s money scrubbed him clean. How?
“This is a mistake,” I manage, the words thin and useless.
“Turn around. Hands behind your back.” She steps forward, the handcuffs already in her hand, her movements practiced and impersonal. She ignores my protest as if it were a gust of wind.
Her hands are firm as she turns me, pressing me against the doorframe. The cold steel bites into my wrists. The lock clicks shut, a sound of absolute finality.
“You have the right to remain silent,” she recites, her voice a monotone drone in my ear. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
My mind isn’t on her words. It’s on the evidence I never leave, the precision of my work. A mistake was impossible.
“I want a lawyer,” I say, the words tasting like ash.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Yes.”
Ramirez pulls a folded document from her jacket. “We also have a warrant to search the premises.”
The floor drops out from under me. A search. They will strip the panels, check the drains, dismantle the life I built with such meticulous care. They will find the black bag in my nightstand. My collection. My work.
And then a far more immediate, far more catastrophic thought crashes in, eclipsing everything else.
They will open the bedroom door.
And they will find him.