CHAPTER 9 - Deimos
I almost fucking killed her tonight. Not with the gun pressed against her throat now. That part is easy. Clean. What almost broke, was the decision before that.
Sitting in my apartment, watching her through the cameras since morning.
The way she reacted to Jake's body. To my precise and complex torture.
The way she was checking the security cameras.
And the moment she decided to call the detective.
The way she stared at the phone on her desk like it was a loaded weapon.
One call. That’s all it would have taken. One call and the entire city would have come crashing down on both of us. The detective. The investigation. The questions. And her name tangled in the middle of it all.
I warned her. I gave her the chance to stop. For a moment I truly considered being silent. Letting her make the call, then finding her later and teaching her exactly what betrayal costs.
The thought stayed in my head longer than it should have. Because that’s what I do. I remove problems. Efficiently. Permanently.
But she isn’t a problem. And even if she was. She’s still my problem. So instead of waiting for her to do something wrong. I got in my car. Drove across the city. And went straight here. I’ll gladly teach her a lesson.
Now she’s standing in front of me, frozen in the cold room where the dead sleep. The dim emergency lights paint her in silver shadows. Her breathing is shallow. Controlled. Braver than she should be.
“You are a difficult woman to protect, Madeline,” I murmur, my lips almost touching the shell of her ear.
She's trembling, a rhythmic shudder I can feel through the layers of our clothes, and yet… she hasn't screamed. She hasn't tried to claw my eyes out. She stands there, caught between survival and a curiosity that I know is as lethal as the weapon I'm holding.
“But you're mine to protect,” I whisper, my grip tightening just a fraction.
The barrel of my gun rests against the soft skin of her throat. I drag it slowly along the line of her neck. Testing. Watching. Her pulse is racing beneath it. Good. So she is afraid.
“You were going to call him.”
My voice comes out quieter than expected. Calm. She doesn’t turn around.
“That was the plan,” she says.
Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tension hiding underneath like a frayed wire. Interesting. The corner of my mouth almost lifts.
“You disobeyed me, Mali.”
That finally earns a reaction. Her shoulders stiffen slightly, the use of the nickname, acting like a physical strike. Slowly, very slowly, she turns her head just enough that I can see the sharp edge of her profile.
“You don’t get to give me orders.”
The defiance in her voice is almost impressive. Almost. I slide the gun from her throat, just for a second, only to press it gently beneath her jaw instead, tilting her chin upward again.
Now she can feel how close I am. Her voice stutters, the first crack in her armor appearing as our proximity turns the air electric.
“You tortured a man to death.”
Jake Sullivan.
His body is less than ten meters away. Tucked inside one of the stainless steel drawers just a few steps from where we stand. I lean closer. Close enough that my lips brush the sensitive edge of her ear, my voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration.
“He. hurt. you.”
She closes her eyes briefly, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Right… and you won’t?”
Still stubborn. Still defiant. Even with the cold weight of a gun pressed under her jaw, where most people would be sobbing for mercy, Madeline Emerson argues. Dangerous woman.
“Let’s not pretend,” I purr, the sound vibrating through both of us.
“That the one part of you isn’t relieved now that he’s dead.”
Her breathing falters for a heartbeat. There it is. The truth is always visible in the smallest fractures of a person's composure. But when she speaks again, the steel returns to her voice, sharp and unyielding.
“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies.”
I smile faintly in the darkness behind her. If only she knew.
My voice lowers to a whisper.
“I already did.”
The cold room stretches around us. Rows of metal drawers. Sleeping bodies. And the two of us standing in the middle of it like something far more terrifying than the dead.
Then she asks the one question I knew was coming. Quiet. Almost careful.
“Why am I still alive?”
Now that… that is a very good question. I let the silence hand between us a little longer. I can feel the tension in her body. The way every muscle in her shoulders is locked, waiting for the next move. Fear keeps people honest. I lower the gun slightly. Then I move.
My hand shoots forward and grabs her arm, yanking her around before she can react. She gasps as I spin her to face me. Now she's looking straight at me.
The emergency lights above us barely illuminate the space. Just enough to carve pieces of my face out of the darkness. Her eyes widen. Not with recognition anymore. With shock.
Because the monster who has been nothing but a voice and a mask suddenly has a face.
Not fully. But enough. The sharp line of my jaw, the hollows of my cheeks, and the eyes that have watched from the shadows.
She's staring at the man she danced with.
The man who held her in the light is the same one who now holds her in the dark.
I move closer to her body. For a moment, I consider answering honestly, admitting to the unhealthy obsession that has rooted itself in my marrow. But that would give her power over me, a leverage that isn't useful for me at this moment.
Instead I lean closer.
“You are still alive because…”
I whisper, the heat of my breath ghosting over her skin.
“You came when I told you to.”
My hand moves suddenly, my fingers curling firmly around her chin. I tilt her face up, forcing her to maintain eye contact.
“And I reward obedience.”
My cock hardens visibly in my pants. The physical reaction between us is instantaneous. A heavy, primal heat floods my system, visible and undeniable. I notice the exact moment her gaze shifts downward. Not to the weapon I'm holding, but lower.
Her breath catches in her throat, a small, jagged sound that echoes in the cold room. A dangerous smirk forms on my lips. Of course she notices. Adrenaline does strange things to the body, violence even more so. The air between us is thick with the scent of both.
I lean even closer, my voice dripping with lust.
“Good.”
Her brow narrows, confusion flickering through the shock in her eyes.
“Good… what?”
“That you’re paying attention baby.”
I step back, letting the sudden, artificial cold of the room rush in to fill the space where I just was. Confusion flashes across her features. Just enough space between us now that she can breathe normally again.
I don't give her time to recover. I gesture firmly with the gun toward the rows of metal drawers lining the walls.
“Open them.”
It isn't a suggestion. It's an order that cuts through the silence like a blade.
“What?”
She blinks, her voice small, lost in the vastness of the morgue.
“All of them.”
Disbelief washes over her, momentarily drowning out the fear.
“You can’t be serious right now.”
My gaze doesn’t leave her for a second. I aim the gun directly at her heart, my hand steady, my expression unreadable.
“Every drawer,” I repeat calmly.
“Pull the trays out.”
Her eyes narrow, that defiance of hers flaring up again. She freezes under the sight of the gun barrel, but she tries to mask the tremor in her hands by crossing her arms.
“You brought me here to… what? Rearrange the morgue?”
She snaps. I take one slow, deliberate step toward her. The humor vanishes from her expression immediately, replaced by a cold, sharp realization.
“Do it.”
She looks at the long, silver line of drawers. Then back at me.
“You already know what’s inside them,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
“Then why—“
“Madeline.”
Just her name. Nothing else. The way I say it is enough. Her jaw tightens, but she turns away. God, I love the way she's so feisty about it. A beautiful challenge. Even now, she fights me.
The first drawer slides open with a long metallic scrape. She moves to the next one. Another tray. Another corpse. The sound echoes through the cold room again and again as she pulls them out one by one.
I watch her the entire time. Her shoulders remain rigid, tension locked deep in the muscles of her back. Yet her hands move with mechanical precision, years of training overriding everything else. Then she reaches the drawer. Jake. She hesitates. Only for a second.
“Open it,” I demand harshly.
Her fingers close around the zipper. Slowly, she pulls it down. His pale face stares up at the ceiling. Dead. Powerless. Exactly where he belongs.
Madeline exhales slowly through her nose, a long, shaky breath, before taking a hesitant step back.
Now the room is filled with the dead. Every tray pulled out like a silver tongue.
Every bag opened. Every corpse visible. She turns toward me again, and for the first time, she looks truly small against the backdrop of my work.
I take a few slow steps forward, closing the distance until I’m standing directly in front of her. The tension between us has shifted. It's no longer just fear. It's something thicker. More dangerous. She feels it too. The pull. The heat underneath the cold air of the morgue.
“On your knees.”
Her eyes widen slightly, the pupils blowing wide.
“I’m not—“
I don't let her finish. I grab her by her neck again, my grip rougher this time. The gun in my other hand presses hard into her side, a cold reminder of who holds the leash.
“Let me make one thing clear, Madeline.”
My voice stays calm, but there’s an edge in it now.
“I’m a patient man. Always have been.”
My grip tightens just enough to make her gasp.
“But with you—“
I bite down on my lower lip, frustration cutting through the words like a dull blade.
“It’s fucking impossible.”