Edging a Killer's Sanity
Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
Delilah Watson—convicted of murder on thirteen counts and suspected of at least four more—looked like the embodiment of fresh sin.
Standing tall in black-laced boots with a heel that should have been illegal given who she was.
She wore the tightest pencil skirt Rowan had ever seen, with sheer stockings that disappeared underneath the hem paired with a sage blouse low enough to give a teasing hint of cleavage.
Rowan couldn’t take her eyes off Delilah.
Her fiery red hair lent a brightness to her ivory skin that the fluorescent lights of the facility worked desperately to dim.
Somehow, Delilah had even managed to source lipstick. And the irony of her choosing a blood red color was not lost on Rowan. She was an ethereal beauty who looked so out of place in the drab, sterile setting of the cleared-out receiving room at Raven Wood Psychiatric Facility.
Rowan had followed the court cases religiously, listened to the news dissecting every movement Delilah had made, read any reports she could get her hands on.
The only thing Rowan hadn’t done was go to the trials herself.
This was the first time Rowan was seeing the infamous serial killer since the last televised trial.
And it was a much different experience than Rowan was prepared for.
Anticipation thrummed within her veins, and her body reacted with a distinct flare of heat pulsing through her marrow.
The line of uniformed police officers circling Delilah did nothing to set Rowan at ease.
Each breath, each cough or sniff or shuffle of their regulation shoes on the tile had Rowan twitching with discomfort. Fucking cops.
Their greedy eyes and untrustworthy gazes lingered on Delilah for too long—the looks more than mere caution.
Rowan wondered which ones Delilah already had wrapped around her finger.
And yes, she did recognize the hypocrisy of hating police yet being the head of security at a psych ward.
But it was different. This was a necessary means to an end, and she never abused her power.
She wouldn’t be staying for much longer anyway.
The transferring officer sidled up to Rowan.
She forced herself not to grimace at his close proximity.
His bald head shone under the overhead lights, and—unlike Delilah—his pallid, white skin was a beacon practically screaming for others to keep away.
In that moment, Rowan was certain he was the type of person to abuse his position. She immediately hated him.
He cleared the phlegm from his throat and chuckled wryly.
She glanced down at him, but he had already followed her line of sight back to Delilah.
When Rowan looked back, Delilah locked eyes with her and every sense went into hyperdrive.
Delilah licked her lips, her gaze trailing slowly down Rowan’s body, pausing on the weapons she wore on her belt.
Rowan was transfixed, watching Delilah size her up. Frozen.
“She’s gonna eat you alive if you keep staring like that,” the officer mumbled, his deep voice ripping through the silence of the room.
He was not nearly quiet enough to keep Delilah from hearing.
Delilah’s lips tilted up in a smirk, and the look in her eyes made the hair on the back of Rowan’s neck stand up.
His tone was humorless—a warning more than a joke. And out of the corner of her eye, Rowan saw his stocky fingers twitch on his belt, centimeters away from his gun. Just like the rest of them.
“I can handle it,” Rowan snapped, finally breaking the connection between her and Delilah, pulling herself out of the trance and away from the dangerous idea that maybe, just maybe, Rowan wanted to be eaten. To be consumed by Delilah until there was nothing left.
“You’d better,” the officer warned. “This is an unprecedented transfer. If anything happens, it’s your ass on the line.
” Rowan didn’t respond as she yanked the paperwork he held away.
She looked down at the thick black text and dotted lines, skimming the words until she found where she was required to sign.
This wasn’t her first transfer from the prison.
Raven Wood took in psychiatric patients from the town’s penitentiary often, but this was the first transfer of Delilah’s caliber.
The small town had never had their own serial killer—especially not one as prolific as her.
And Rowan had certainly never been solely responsible for keeping one under control while they underwent processing and therapy.
The state had fought like hell to keep Delilah at the maximum security prison where she’d spent the last two and a half years of her life. But Delilah Watson had one hell of a lawyer.
An insanity plea. A successful insanity plea accompanied with a transfer for someone of her track record…
No judge in the world would risk their career for that deal.
Except, apparently, Judge Graham. A stickler for the rules and a total hard ass.
And for some reason the one person who thought Delilah deserved a chance at rehabilitation.
At least, that’s what Rowan thought before she watched the trial.
Before she noticed the way he looked at her.
His grimy, lust- and terror-filled eyes.
The sweat beading on his forehead as he accepted the deal.
She had something on him, and whatever it was would end him if it got out. That much was obvious.
Rowan shoved the paperwork back into the balding officer’s clammy hands when she finished signing every page.
Her attention immediately returned to her new patient.
Delilah was still watching her with a predatory gaze, her painted lips curved into a bloodthirsty smile.
Rowan fought the urge to fix her uniform, but she did straighten her posture and project the cool air of confidence.
She knew what she looked like. Knew what Delilah saw.
Another guard. Standard issue, run-of-the-mill, someone to shape and bend to her will.
Her polo with the institution’s logo printed on the right breast and the fitted black pants did nothing to make her look anything other than ordinary.
Even her belt held the same standard issue stun gun, baton, radio, and cuffs that every other guard wore.
Rowan dragged her hand through her short, slick, black hair, pushing it away from where it had fallen in front of her eyes while signing the papers. And Delilah watched that too, her eyes lingering on Rowan’s muscular bicep.
“Watch your back,” the officer grunted, offering one final, and entirely useless, piece of advice before he waddled his way back to the patrol car and signaled for the whole lot to leave, officially washing his hands of Delilah Watson.
Rowan had been a marine for ten years. She’d done two combat tours, was top of her class, and had been head of security at Raven Wood—a high security psych ward that often handled dangerous people—for a few years after that.
She could handle one woman. She didn’t need the useless officer’s warning or his disgusting judgement.
Even if the warning came because the serial killer was currently looking at Rowan like she was a prize for the taking.
She ignored the gnawing in her gut that she’d just scrawled everyone’s life away—because that is what would happen if she messed up. People would die. A lot of people.