Chapter 8 Muscle Memory
Muscle Memory
It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.
— THOMAS MOORE
COLLINS
No one counts the beats of their heart.
As long as the muscle pumps, we don’t want to consciously think about the finite number we have left. The moment it will stop.
Hand trembling, I reach into my coat pocket and produce the silver pill case designed to look like a nondescript compact. I open the lid and count the white tablets, the only number I keep track of. I had to stockpile enough of my meds to last several months.
A violent gust of wind whips through the arched walkway as I swallow down a dry pill.
The ends of my wind-torn hair snap at my cheek, triggering a burst of anger.
The fury bubbles up too quickly to contain, and I smash the case against the stone column, biting down on my lip to hold back the scream trying to claw up my throat.
One. Two—
My body quivers through the attack until the coppery taste of blood hits my tongue, and the fire wanes into smoldering ash in my stomach.
I release the pain with a shaky breath, now dulled to a tight pinch in my sternum. Keeping my hand braced to the stone, I curl my fingers around the case as I wait for the nausea to subside, and vertigo gradually recedes.
Three.
“Shit.” That might have been the riskiest, stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
I can practically hear Darby’s scowl, see the emphatic shake of his head, gearing up to lecture me.
A broken smile fights onto my face at the thought of him even as the cold penetrates my bones so deep, I fear I’ll never be warm again. While I was able to collect a change of clothes and shoes from my office, I had to be fast, not giving myself time to recover.
Dropping the pill case into my bag, I check to make sure Orion is no longer watching. An empty silence haunts the university in the night hours, the dark a physical entity lurking in the corners.
Another gust of wind spurs me out of the colonnade, and I wrap my arms around my midsection as the medicine slowly works through my veins.
Dim streetlamps line the uneven sidewalk, guiding me away from the campus grounds. The distant crash of waves chases me like a taunt, conjuring the sensation of frigid waves rocking my body, and the calm blue-green waters of his eyes that held me steady.
I’ve interviewed some of the most charming and charismatic offenders. I’ve studied the expert manipulations of psychopaths. But after our encounter tonight, Orion is the first to leave me shaken.
The phantom feel of his arms around my body lingers like a brand. I can still hear the heavy beat of his heart pounding through me like a drum, still feel the pulse of it strong against my cheek as he carried me to safety.
Sheltered from danger by the arms of danger himself.
After watching him this past month, I was prepared for the mind games, but not for his emotional intelligence. Orion mirrors better than any psychopath I’ve studied. The way he tailored his personality to mine, to my fear, knowing just how to put me at ease.
The diverting, flirty winks and smirks, fully aware of his sex appeal. He uses this to his advantage. From anyone else, the unfiltered thoughts would be crude and off-putting.
He’s too quick a study, an apex predator, easing into banter effortlessly, making me feel a connection with him.
I can’t touch you.
The gravelly timbre of his voice invades my mind, brushing through my body like the heat of his breath over my neck. The way he used those four simple words to disarm me.
Yet as I’ve seen the result of his violence firsthand, I know I don’t need to feel the press of his skin for him to hurt me.
Resting my palm to the valley of my chest, I center my breathing and allow my steps to slow. My fear tonight wasn’t a complete deception—I was a good swimmer once—but my vulnerability had to be real.
I can’t simply play the victim. I have to bare my throat to the predator, let him sink his teeth into my jugular and taste my fear.
There’s power in surrender, in helplessly looking up at the predator, anticipating the bite, letting them believe they have control. Waiting for their fangs to sink deep—
Then they get that first bitter taste of poison.
My veins are primed with it.
As the wind rustles the skeletal branches of the trees, the shadows cast over the town grow deeper, appearing more sinister. Even if I’m used to moving through the world alone, have long since stopped fearing the isolation, the dark still stirs an instinctive dread.
It’s where monsters roam. You don’t see them coming until they’re close enough to wound.
I know Orion could have easily let me drown, or snapped my neck. Appealing to a killer’s protective nature is as tricky as it is risky. But for a highly intelligent offender, protective is synonymous with possessive. Orion is territorial by nature, and he’s territorial over Stonehurst.
A tragic death at his university would shine a giant spotlight on his habitat, bringing unwanted attention from authorities. The hunter won’t risk an investigation. Not when he’s this close to completing his ritual.
It’s his pattern: Shorehaven. Solar eclipse. And the victim…
I glance around at the quiet town, wondering where his victim is right now. What they’re wanted for, what dark deed they’re guilty of. Eleven of the twelve celestial constellations have been claimed, leaving only Gemini—the final sign on his chart.
By the time I reach my unit, my hands are numb, my lungs burn from the cold, and I shakily push the key into the deadbolt, practically falling past the threshold.
The only source of light comes from the soft glow of the kitchen appliances. I quickly turn on the lamp, illuminating the space to chase back the dark.
Kicking off my shoes, I wrap myself in a plush blanket on the loveseat, trying to eliminate the chattering of my teeth, unsure if it’s from the cold still seeping into my bones or nerves.
“Dammit.” I clutch my phone tight, drumming up the courage to make the call I’ve been dreading since I first took on this assignment.
With a resigned breath, I set my phone timer, then punch in his personal number, my free hand pressed firmly to my chest. I’m using an app to prevent my number from being traced. If there’s no answer after three rings, I have to end the call.
“Who is this?”
Throat tight, I force a swallow. It’s been too long since I’ve heard Darby’s voice. “I’m here. I’m with him.”
There’s a tense pause before he finally says, “Are you safe?”
Relieved, I relax my grip on the phone and glance around my living space. My gaze falls over the few personal effects I’ve placed around the room to keep me anchored. “Yeah, I’m safe.”
His exhale is audible. “Christ, where are you?”
“I can’t tell you that. I just wanted you to know I’m okay.” And to hear the voice of my friend, to feel like I still have a lifeline.
“But you’re not. I can hear it in your voice,” he says, his words a sharp lash against my resolve. “Tell me what happened.”
I bite the corner of my lip, internally cursing myself. Of course Darby can tell when I’m rattled.
“Hol, if this is our guy, then you’ve put yourself in serious danger,” he continues. “Let me help get you out of there.”
I suppress the quick flash of anger and clutch the blanket to my chest. “I know what I’m doing,” I assure him. “I’ve spent months immersed in his world, investigating him—”
“Stalking him.”
Indignation flares hot. “I’m the only one who can do this.”
Darby didn’t get a say when it came to making that call.
“Give me a name,” he demands.
“You know I can’t tell you that, either. Look—” I sit forward to alleviate the pressure beneath my ribs. “Just…for once, you have to trust me.”
“I’ve always trusted you. Even when this obsession got way out of hand.” Another lengthy pause. “You know Laurel would never approve of this. She never supported you working in the field—” He breaks off with a weary sigh.
His words drip like acid in my stomach.
Silence builds between us, my short breaths crackling into the receiver. I swallow past the aching burn in my throat. “I thought about Haylie on the anniversary. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there this time.”
I imagine Darby spinning the leather bracelet around his wrist, the one his daughter gave him before she was abducted by the monster who extinguished her beautiful light from this world.
Maybe it’s cruel of me to use her this way, but if he’s going to use Laurel against me, it’s my only defense.
“I see you still can’t locate your heart,” he fires back, anger threading his harsh tone.
The tension in my shoulders deflates. “I deserve that.”
As with any defense mechanism, I’ve built a callus around my heart to protect it, and often, that abrasive layer hurts the ones I care for the most.
“Darby…” I let my voice trail off, expelling an anguished breath. I can’t lie to him and claim my motivation isn’t entirely selfish. “I don’t have much time. But I’m all right. I have to see this through.”
“Just remember what I said before, about imposing your will,” he says, his tone grave. “Revenge won’t change the past.”
The warning beep sounds on the timer. A twinge of panic unfurls in my chest. “I’ll try to contact you again soon,” I promise him. “And, Darby, don’t bother trying to trace this call. I used your tech to spoof it.”
I end the call.
Exhaustion grips me almost immediately as the adrenaline leaks from my system. I’m left feeling weak, my muscles sore and achy.
I toss the phone aside and slump back into the sofa, casting a look through the lancet-glass doors. Amid the soaring spires, the observatory glows against the night sky. The domed structure looms over the town like a menacing fortress, concealing his secrets.
The university and I, we want the same thing.
His research.
Fighting the fatigue draining me, I stand and move to the balcony doors. Without thought, I push up onto my toes as I peer through the dingy, double-paned glass.
That’s the thing about muscle memory, how over time, our actions become so familiar, so ingrained in us, we perform them with so little effort. It can be a comfort.
It can also be a nightmare.
Our bodies have the ability to retain the memory of a traumatic experience, where the slightest whisper of danger triggers our fight-or-flight response.
Tonight, I didn’t merely embrace the alarm sounding through my body—I made it my song. Every threatening, thunderous crash of a wave became a trilling note. Every strike against my bones in fear became a percussive beat that I timed to his powerful heart.
As my gaze wanders over his observatory, I imagine him there within the depths, charting his constellations.
Projecting his next kill.
My hand coasts over my neck, delicately exploring down to the buttons of my sweater. I work one open, then the next, letting my fingertips trail. A shiver tightens my skin as I envision his hands mapping my body the way he maps his star charts.
Touched by the hands of death.
When you’ve come so close, felt your last breath snatched from your lungs, your very life teased by the rough hands of death, you almost crave its cruel caress.
You get tired of fearing it.
I wrap my hand around my throat, tightening until the pressure builds. I never take my eyes off his towering haven while I touch the most intimate parts of my body. Remapping my neural pathways. Taking back stolen power.
Excited by the fear I’ll invoke in his dark eyes.
As my skirt falls around my feet, I flatten one hand against the glass to brace myself, my other slipping between my thighs. Arousal stirs my blood, muscles gathering tight.
My hunter may be in a cooldown period, but I can feel the impending shift—like the ocean drawing back right before the break, knowing there’s nothing that will stop the oncoming wave.
I saw it in the way those beautiful eyes heated with the bluest ember. Orion’s hunger is a rising tidal swell.
And I’ll be there when he breaks.
I lower my forehead to the cold glass and seal my hand around my neck, dig my blunt nails into my skin, imprinting bruises along my throat. A hit of gratification arches my back, and I moan through the trembling pleasure, my breaths short and raw as I stare into the moonless night.
Every monster harbors a little deviance. I just need to rouse that buried hunger to his controlled surface—the one he doesn’t even allow out when it’s time to hunt.
The stars burn against the darkness, calling up the memory of Orion hovering close enough I could trace the gray ring around the teal sea of his irises. So breathtaking, like gazing into a cluster of galaxies, an inferno of stars.
If Orion needs a body to use, he can have mine. It stopped belonging to me long ago.
Where I’m most vulnerable, even defenseless, what that weakness does grant me is the elimination of fear. Orion could have strangled me on that rock and I would’ve had only one regret.
Revenge won’t change the past.
No, it won’t—but I’m not trying to rewrite history.
If it’s the task of the sculptor to discover the statue inside the block of stone, then I’ll be the fucking sculptor. I’ll chip at Orion’s stone until I’ve carved his secrets free.
“I won’t get another chance,” I whisper on a broken breath.
I touch myself until my body draws taut, pleasure crashing through me. I grip my throat until my pulse roars in my ears with the rush of blood, until I’m drowning beneath thrashing waves of sensation—
Until the beats of my heart bang strong enough to count.