“You have got to be more aware of your surroundings,” he retorts. Then his lips find my neck, chasing away the chill and sending a shiver over my skin at the same time.
“Do you think…?” I hedge.
“No,” he answers simply. “We’re safe, London. We’re free.”
I breathe a little easier, accepting this. In another few monthswe’ll be leaving the country, and then I can finally relax, too far away for my demons to follow.
As we leave the cemetery, I study Grayson’s profile, thinking about how, if I were truly safe, he wouldn’t be here. Then I shake the thought from my head and take his hand in mine.
Grayson says I’m his angel, but it’s he who watches over me. My dark protector.
Not all demons are born to the dark, and not all angels seek the light. Sometimes our circumstance demands a fusion of both. There is no good and evil, only the time spent between both heaven and hell, where we find our peace.
And love.
Even the vilest of monsters deserve to be loved.
Thank you so much, lovely reader, for taking this dark journey with London and Grayson, for reading my work. You are why I write.
Want more London and Grayson?If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’ll continue down the rabbit hole even further with my next thrilling romance duetCruel Malady, where you’ll follow Grayson’s twisted web as he and London entangle Dr. Alex Chambers and Blakely Vaughn in their mind games. Both Grayson and London make cameo appearances. Read a teaser below.
Start readingCruel Maladynow
And don’t forget to grab the London & Grayson extended epilogue novella here .
ALEX
“Lilah—” I call out. When she doesn’t respond, I put myself right in her path. “I didn’t think that was your name.”
“You’re a clever one.” She tucks her clutch under her arm and squares her shoulders. “None of the girls go by their names.”
None of the girls.As if she’s simply one of them. “Then what’s yours?” I demand.
“Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she fires back.
My mouth slants disapprovingly. That line doesn’t suit her. While psych has never been my strength, it’s obvious she exhibits some of the desired characteristics on the Dirty Dozen scale—an evaluation to determine if a person fits the dark triad.
I imagine most escorts demonstrate some tendency toward these traits—Machiavellianism, narcissism, psychopathy—as they need a certain level of manipulative tactics to control their clientele.
It’s just plain survival instinct.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I step closer to her. “I noticed you don’t seem too interested in entertaining your clients.”
“And you seem to notice a lot,” she says, her gaze tracking over me deliberately. “I notice a lot, too, like the fact your name isn’t Hunter. Not according to your credit card,Alex.”
A heated spark shoots through my veins, and I’m buzzing. She just ticked up the score on her assessment.
“You’re extremely observant,” I say. “Maybe I wasn’t comfortable enough to give my real name, either.”
Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me. “Look. My time is better spent entertaining in private. That’s what my clientele pay for. Which”—she makes it a point to glance over my clothes—“I’m sorry to say, is very out of your price range.” She levels me with a severe glare. “You should leave, whoever you are.”
Those eyes…that stare… God, her cold gaze is unnerving.
I lean in toward her and lower my voice to an audible whisper. “You’re not a whore.”
Her blood-red lips tip upward, her smile disarming. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“You’re not an escort,” I clarify.
