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I pause the video and zoom in on his face, focusing on his brown eyes. They aren’t the eyes of a bright, lively porn star like I once thought, but rather a cold and calculating killer. One who has mastered his craft of poison. Only now, the more I dive into these cold cases, I realize it isn’t just poison. Even though some deaths don’t always have his signature calling card, I know it’s him. The proof is all there for me to find, like a tempting little trail of breadcrumbs. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but me, a man with a sick little obsession.

I freeze when I see a very gruesome photo of a man who was tortured slowly with a sharp knife. Small cuts and even pieces of his skin were sliced off, reminding me of a Chinese form of torture called Lingchi.

I suck in a deep breath, trying to contain the giddy laughter from bubbling out of my throat. I feel a terrifying, electric jolt of awe. Fucking hell, I think my crush has just intensified tenfold.

The game has shifted. I’m no longer an obsessed fan watching his crush from afar. Now, I’m a professional hitman being toyed with by a serial killer.

I have never felt more alive.

Drumming my fingers against my desk, I lean back in my chair, heart racing, dick half hard. A striking spark of reverence quivers through my veins, leaving me breathless and vibrating. I’m overwhelmed with it. The dark, metaphorical beast inside of me lifts its head, hungry.

I spent all this time believing I was alone, hiding in the shadows, and letting the darkness consume me. It turns out that my celebrity crush was right here this whole time, just as twisted. Just as vicious.

Vicious, like me.

My phone lights up with a text message. I don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

Unknown Number: It’s obvious that you love my gift.

“Alright, minx,” I mutter out loud, wondering if he has my house bugged too. I stand from my chair and stretch before making my way over to my chessboard. “You like to play? You’ve got plenty of pieces left on the board, but none of them can save you.” I slide the last piece on the board into place. Checkmate.

A lethal, hungry smile curls at the corners of my mouth. Looks like I caught the attention of a pretty little serial killer who enjoys playing games.

Chapter eleven

Skylar

Itug the collar of my peacoat tight against the chilly city wind. Despite the cold air, New Vernon pulses with nightlife. About half a block ahead, Jericho casually weaves his way through the crowd before finally walking into a local club. Unlike all the other times I’ve followed him, he seems to be relaxed. Confident. More in control and no longer paranoid.

What the hell is he up to?

Ever since I called him earlier this week, it’s as if we’ve been playing a twisted game of cat and mouse. There have been times when I’ve felt eyes on me, only to spin around and find no one there. I’m honestly surprised he hasn’t used my number to call or text. He knows I’ve been in his house, that I’ve been following him. Armed with that information, he’s used it to get the upper hand.

He’s made minor changes to his usual habits, and a part of me wonders if it’s a test.

Tonight, for example, if it were a normal night, he’d be at home reading a book. Not out in the freezing cold. I approach the bar cautiously, wondering if this is a trap. My lips twitch. Damn, part of me hopes it is. To my surprise, the building is crowded as soon as I walk in, and there’s a cover fee to enter.

After nodding at the bouncer and giving him cash, I leave my peacoat at coat check. Immediately, my eyes skim past the dance floor to the man effortlessly striding toward the bar. He’s ditched his jacket and moves with the lethal grace of a predator in a tight black dress shirt and black jeans.

I freeze.

We fucking match. Even our sleeves are rolled up over our forearms, stopping just below our elbows. Did he do this on purpose to mess with me? Does he know I’m following him? My thoughts are a chaotic mess as I just stand there, out in the open, watching him.

As soon as he makes it to the bar, he orders a drink from the bartender and takes a seat. Did I get it all wrong? Maybe he’s just here to get laid. No, there’s an empty spot next to him, almost as if he chose that chair deliberately. Is that seat for me?

Fuck it. What’s the harm in sharing a drink with this handsome man? I take a step forward only to see an attractive-looking silver fox slide into the vacant space next to him.

Jericho glances up, and the silver fox leans his shoulder against my brute. Jericho doesn’t pull away as I expect him to; instead, he gives the older man a sly smirk and flags the bartender again. While Jericho’s ordering another drink, I notice the older man fidgeting with something in his pocket. It’s sketchy as fuck.

People dance around me, sometimes casually bumping into me as I stand there frozen. The bartender slides a drink their way, and Jericho pays. My stomach tightens with rage and jealousy. Before I even know what I’m doing, I pull out my phone, find Jericho’s contact, and send him a message.

Me: Who the hell is he?

Jericho tugs his phone out of his pocket and reads my text. I’m prepared for him to ignore me, place his phone back in his pocket, and continue flirting with the gentleman who’s giving off major creep vibes. Instead, a cocky, sinful smirk plays on his lips. To my delight, my handsome brute’s fingers tap out a quick message. A moment later, my phone vibrates in my hand.

Jericho: Patience, Minx. We’re about to have a little fun tonight.

My heart races. He knew. He knew I was following him. That I’m watching him now as he speaks to this stranger. I inch closer, wondering what game we’re playing. Suddenly, it hits me. I recognize the piece of shit. It’s Charlie Foreman. A man I’ve seen splashed all over the news with rumors of sexual assault.