Page 218 of Chameleon Killer

Mine wasn't any better.

“You've been awake for almost thirty hours.”

“Twenty-seven,” she corrected. “So have you.”

“That doesn't help.”

“I slept Thursday.” She waved it off like an unimportant fact.

“Briefly.”

“Are you monitoring my sleep now?” A light gleamed in her eyes as she all but dared me.

What else could I do but be honest? “Yes.”

“Creepy.”

“Mallory.”

She sobered.

I didn't release her. “I need to know this isn't just adrenaline, and chasing the story, and tonight.”

Her eyes searched mine. “It isn't.”

“You could have died.” Right, wrong, or indifferent. The minute she’d gone into that building, she’d risked her life. I’d let her do it.

“But I didn't.”

“You thought you were meeting a serial killer.”

“Alleged.”

I glared.

“Sorry.” Her meek expression wouldn’t fool a five year old.

“No, you're not.”

“No,” she said with a faint smile. “I’m not.”

I huffed out a breath. “You've had cops pointing weapons at you, spent hours being questioned, watched somebody fabricate a conversation using your face and voice, and watched Brewster get pulled off a case he's obsessed with.”

“Yes.”

“Adrenaline is as bad as alcohol when it comes to consent.”

Something softened in her expression. “I know.”

“I won't be the next bad decision because you need to feel something other than scared.”

The instant I said it, I regretted the wording.

Mallory didn't. She stepped closer again and leaned into me as her hands slid up my arms to my shoulders.

“I made that mistake with Elliot,” she whispered.

My hand loosened on her hips. “Mal⁠—”