Chapter 1
FLESH OF MY FLESH
GRAYSON
The beat of slow-pulsing music stirs my blood.
There’s an influence to its beat, an air of mystery.
That which is too powerful, too ineffable, to describe—you have to feel it.
That intoxicating rhythm coursing through your system.
Adrenaline sliding against your veins. A lover’s caress that makes your body tremble, anticipation igniting your skin.
It’s the feeling only a truly free person can feel.
Alive.
The beat throbs inside my chest as I move through the dark club. Bodies pressed thick and undulating on the floor, exposed skin, sweat. The smell of lust and alcohol infuses the air.
I watch the body of the crowd rise and fall like the swell of a wave. Crashing and cresting. A siren’s call beckoning me closer as I weave through the dancing bodies like a prowling wolf.
As if in slow motion, I walk among them, noticing every lick of the lips. Sway of the hips. Touch to the brow. Dilation of pupils.
It’s predatory, this gravitational pull that arouses their curiosity.
Men and women alike turn in my direction, their eyes tracking my movement.
Hypnotic sex appeal—it’s a lure. The predator doesn’t need to stalk its prey.
Like the bright, colorful flower that attracts the insect, then snaps its mouth around its meal—
I can feel their draw to me.
That power surges, emitting a pheromone to reel them in. The music choreographs our dance, the composition of hunter and prey. It’s electric.
I settle against the back wall of the nightclub, all corners and the entrance in view.
I’m dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, concealing the tattoos that have been circling the media and Internet.
I’ve changed the color of my eyes from blue to brown with contacts.
My hair’s grown out enough not to match my description.
But here—among the other predators—I don’t have to hide.
They welcome me.
This is my hunting ground.
The beat changes. Faster. Harder. And my gaze captures the blonde entering the Blue Clover.
My whole body is lit on fire.
Like a moth seeking the flame, I only see her; her brilliance illuminates the dark.
The club fades away, the music becomes a distant, muted backdrop to the loud thump pulsing in my ears.
Every muscle in my body tenses, my chest aflame with a searing ache that burns my throat, my mouth watering to taste her.
Six weeks on the run, and this is the first time I’m in danger of being caught.
She glides around the room like a goddess before her worshipers. She’s a sinner and a saint, her short black skirt a tease to the senses, her angelic brown eyes set with flecks of gold—a lure into her gauzy web with the promise of salvation.
And I am lured. Completely. She owns my entire being. Flesh and bone. My black soul belongs to her. With one look, she takes me down. If she demands I kneel right here, I’ll drop to my knees, offer penance for my sins as I plead for her to devour me.
She moves closer, keeping me in her sights, and I’m clawing out of my skin to reach her. I press my back against the wall to ground myself. My shoulders ache from the pressure. I’m hard in anticipation as I watch her slender legs eat the distance between us.
With three words from her I come undone:
“I found you.”
My eyes close at the sound of her voice. I capture her neck and pull her to me, teasing a length of brunette hair from beneath her wig. I lower my head to her shoulder and inhale. Lilacs.
London’s petite body molds seamlessly against mine, making me whole. My other half. Two puzzle pieces sliding together. A perfect fit.
I drag my palm up her thigh, memorizing the feel of her soft skin all over again. “God, you’re real.”
Her breathy whisper teases my ear. “In the flesh.”
I burned my fortress to the ground to set her free, so she’d remain innocent in the law’s eyes. The fire offered me time to escape, authorities burdened with the task of combing through the ashes as they sifted for my remains.
And for London? It put her above reproach. She’s a victim.
Only I know how truly lethal my sultry psychologist is, and feeling her now, her intoxicating scent invading my senses, I’m under her spell. She’s a seductress—seducing me from miles away, luring me here.
My thumb finds the pulse point of her neck. “You did this,” I whisper harshly to her. “You brought me here.”
Her glossy lips twist into a wicked smile. “I had to.”
My heart thunders under her palm. “This is dangerous. You’re dangerous.” I’m risking everything to be here, but existence means nothing without her. I roam my hands up the curves of her body, feeling every delectable inch of her. “No handbag.”
She narrows her eyes. “No identification. Are you searching for a wire?”
I stop and pull her against me once more. “I would be stupid not to.”
“You’re paranoid.”
A devilish smile curls my lips. “Is that a diagnosis?”
“It’s a fucking observation,” she fires back.
“I’m on the run from the FBI,” I say, skating the pad of my finger across her bottom lip. She melts beneath my touch. “That tends to make one a little paranoid.”
“Not about me,” she stresses. “Don’t ever question me. I’m risking just as much as you are, Grayson.”
“Noted, doc.” Fuck, she’s fire and life. She brings color to my world. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her without even realizing she was the missing part of me. Flesh of my flesh. “But you’re still dangerous,” I tell her.
Her silky lips find my neck. Her mouth opens to taste me, her tongue slips over my skin, and a hard shiver rocks through me. “That didn’t stop you before.” Her breathy declaration heats my blood.
I soar under her touch. “It won’t ever.”
“Grayson,” she says, her voice strained with raw emotion. “I found a way for us to be together.”
My body tenses. “It’s not time.”
The music changes beat, a provocative melody, forcing a shift in atmosphere around us.
London pushes onto her toes and links her arms around my neck, whispering into my ear.
“You have to trust me.” Her body sways, and I follow her lead as she guides us off the wall and into a slow dance.
“You gave me a choice once, now I’m offering you one. ”
Her body is so delicate in my hands, I could break her. But I like when she leads. “Down the rabbit hole,” I say, remembering the moment on the hospital rooftop when I offered her my hand.
She rests her cheek against my chest. “Together.”
The music swells, ascending higher as I tuck her close, knowing that I’ll never be able to leave her now. The choices have always been London’s to make. I might’ve designed the traps, but she guided us there.
She traces something soft along my throat, and when she pulls back, I glimpse the dried clover. A smile tugs at my lips. The gift I left for her in her childhood dungeon. I gave her one small clue, and she took that little hint and used it to direct my course.
When she next appeared on the news, she had the clover pinned to her suit jacket. In a newspaper article, she was shown distraught, gripping a blue bar napkin in her hands. To anyone else, these objects would be meaningless. But to me, they didn’t belong.
Sometimes, it’s what’s wrong with the picture that captures our attention. And London and I…we’re very, very wrong. A portrait of the wicked and sinful. She’s the artist and I’m her canvas, waiting for her to complete our story.
Then recently, a broadcast on the web revealed the date: Her announcement that Agent Nelson was traveling to Mize for the reveal of the victims’ identities.
I followed her story like she knew I would. I followed her to the Blue Clover because we belong together.
And I’ve waited long enough.
While she was unveiling the horror story of her life to the world, unearthing dead girls from the soil of her childhood home, I was pretty diligent myself, setting up false leads across the country. Dropping little breadcrumbs to keep the FBI task force busy.
We’ll come back to that later.
Right now, I’m famished. Starved to taste what I’ve been denying myself for far too long.
London pushes close to my ear. “You’re hungry,” she whispers. “I can feel your need.”
Jaw clenched, I grab the skimpy material of her skirt and bunch it in my fists. I find her eyes—those bottomless browns shimmering with gold—before I take her mouth. I groan into the kiss, the taste of her a drug injected into my deprived system.
The music returns with a roaring crash to my senses. I’m drunk on her and swaying beneath her spell. Only one other indulgence compares to this sublime feeling, and I’m unable to deny myself any longer. I break away and turn her around to face the club.
Securing my hands to her hips, I guide her back against my chest. My eyes shutter as she snakes an arm around my neck, welding her body along mine.
I dip my head low and whisper, “Choose.”
Enticing me isn’t enough. London thinks she’s going to poke the beast with no repercussions… If she’s ready to bring the manhunt to an end, then she’s ready to take lives.
I feel the excited quake roll over her body. “You don’t think I’m ready.”
“I think if I’ve come all this way, placing myself right in the path of bloodhounds, you’re going to prove it.”
“Didn’t I prove it when I dunked a fiend in a tank of acid?” Her words seethe with righteous anger.
I smile at the memory of our first kill. “Your hands still look clean,” I say in a low, rough tone. “I want to see them filthy. I want to see them red.”
Her body responds to my challenge with a hard shiver. Then her hips rock into me, daring me all the same. London and I have been battling for control since I first entered her therapy room. If she only realized just how much control she has over me, the fucking damage she could do.
“This isn’t your selection process,” she says, a tremble lacing her voice. “It’s too impulsive.”