Grayson has no experience with deep emotion. His response could be volatile.
When physical or psychological pain becomes too severe, the mind and body protect one another—one dulls while the other endures. It’s mercy by design.
But if Grayson were to experience a sudden emotionalbreakthrough, it would be like a burn victim regaining sensation all at once.
Not a release.
A rupture.
And instead of a merciful death, the mind would shatter.
I shut my eyes against the thought, and Grayson pulls me tighter to him. “I haven’t hunted since I left you that morning.”
His admission catches me off-guard. I drag his arms around me, shielding myself from the chilly air. “But the murders in Brunswick and Minneapolis? The reports said?—”
“Seems I have a copycat.”
He says it glibly, but lethal agitation brims beneath his cool exterior. Most serial killers aren’t flattered by an imitator. Rather, it’s an insult.
“Do you know who?”
“No.” He shakes his head lightly. “Not yet. But I will.”
Of course, if Grayson knew who the imitator was, they’d already be eliminated.
“This could further complicate things, or…” I again glance at our victim, only now in a new light. The rapist could serve a bigger purpose. “We need to dispose of the body.”
“Ineed to,” he emphasizes. “You need to return to your life.”
But I’m already thinking beyond that. My gaze snags on every detail of the warehouse, and I realize it’s not just an abandoned building. It was once a mechanic garage. “This place has far more potential.”
“I love the look on your face right now,” Grayson says as he feathers my hair over my shoulder. “Like someone is about to suffer.”
I tip my head back, locking with his animated gaze. “Is this what it feels like when you design your traps, when everything slides into place and you know it will work?”
“That depends. What do you feel?” His question burns withcuriosity. He truly desires to know, to experience what I’m feeling.
“It feels holy—like an epiphany.”
“Epiphany,” he repeats, a calm expression softening the sharp lines of his features. That rare dimple carves his cheek as he smiles. “You were mine, London.”
I fall into him then. Completely. Lost in the blue of his eyes, the softness of his lips, and the red staining our hands. A beautiful and brutal epiphany that could save us, or damn us further, blooms to life right here in the darkness that spawned us.
3
ORIGINATION
GRAYSON
Murder.
Is the desire to take life in our DNA? A hereditary trait passed down through generations. Or is it a malfunction of the brain? All those misfiring neurons. Or is it something more—somethingother—that which can’t be assimilated in a lab?
Nature or nurture.
The age-old question of scientists and doctors the world over.
Yet it’s a tired question. A boring one. And the answer doesn’t affect the outcome. Just ask Dr. London Noble. The doctor who shattered my reality. The woman who wormed her way into my decaying soul and resurrected me. Like a phoenix born from ash, I’m a new man.
