The words send a strange chill through me. Because it doesn’t sound like relief. It sounds like approval.
I study him carefully now. It’s not just the man who has been watching me in the morgue. Not just the stranger with the mask. This is the man whose crimes I have spent months studying under the cold fluorescent lights. The man whose victims lie on my tables. The man the entire department whispers about like a ghost.
My voice comes out softer this time. But steady.
“You’re him.”
His fingers pause on my waist. My fingers tremble against his shoulder as I regain my courage to say it.
“The Arbiter.”
Inside the microscopic space between our bodies, the air goes completely still. Something shifts behind his covered eyes. Nota surprise, but recognition. It feels like I’ve just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. Twice already.
He pulls our bodies together as we sway with the song. Slow. Controlled. Intentional.
“You shouldn’t say things like that here,” he murmurs near my neck. His voice is a low vibration, so quiet that no one else could possibly hear it over the music.
“But I’m right,” I say, my voice steady despite the hammer of my heart.
His breath brushes the side of my temple, and I feel his quiet amusement before I even hear it.
“You’re very observant, Madeline.”
The way he says my name makes heat crawl to places it definitely shouldn’t. It’s not just a name to him; it’s a claim.
“But that kind of curiosity,” he continues softly.
“Usually gets people killed.”
His hand slides up, his fingers gripping the back of my neck roughly. It’s not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me how easily he could. I don’t pull away. Instead I look straight into the dark lenses of his mask, searching for the man beneath the monster.
“My ex,” I breathe, the realization of the silence in the lounge finally hitting me.
“Where is he?”
“He won’t bother you anymore.”
His tone is serious now. Dead serious. The kind of finality that leaves no room for question.
His answer should terrify me. Maybe it does. But my body doesn’t move away. If anything, the remaining distance between us disappears completely. His hand settles against my lower back now. Obsessive. Certain.
People are dancing all around us, laughing, talking, completely unaware of who stands in the middle of their crowded dance floor. A killer. And me.
“Did you hurt him?”
Silence stretches between us. His expression is unreadable, hidden behind the mask, but I can feel the weight of his gaze. It feels like he’s memorizing every inch of my face, cataloging my reactions as if he already knows the answers to the questions I haven’t asked yet.
“You’re not denying it,” I whisper.
His head tilts, a slow, deliberate movement.
“Would it change anything if I did?”
I hesitate. Deep down, I already know the truth. I’ve seen his work. I’ve touched the clinical precision he leaves behind on my autopsy table. And somehow… standing here now… I understand something that none of the files ever captured. The control. The lethal restraint. The quiet intensity humming beneath his calm exterior.
“You followed me,” I say instead.
His thumb brushes slowly along my lower back, tracing the curve of my spine through the silk of my dress.
