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A vicious shiver races along my skin, and I try to ignore the pounding of my heart. The erratic beats drown out my hurried breaths. I’m focusing too hard on controlling them, my will tested as my whole body aches to be lost to him.
“Mr. Reed,” I formally address him. “This isn’t a social call. I have a few more questions I need to ask. Can I come in?”
And like that, his open expression shifts, closing off. But nearly as quickly, he forces his features playful. He’s controlling this game.
Nodding his head toward the living area, he opens the door wide, allowing me to enter. I rest my hand over my SIG just beneath my jean jacket as I step across the threshold.
“Is your roommate—Jefferson—home?” I ask, my gaze sweeping the tidy, quiet apartment.
Colton walks to the leather loveseat and makes himself comfortable for the interrogation. “Not today,” he says, and pats the space beside him. “I’d offer you a towel…but you’re too damn sexy all wet.”
I stay rooted to my spot. “I prefer to stand. Thank you.”
Obvious annoyance tints his face at my refusal to participate in the banter. “What’s this about, Sadie? Why the cop-like approach. Is it because it’s the daytime? Because we’re not in the club?” His arctic gaze travels over my body very evidently. “Is it the clothes that make the girl? Crime fighter by day, sultry sex kitten by night. Because really, both do a damn fine job of turning me on.”
I can feel myself losing my footing. If I drag this out, I’ll only give him the upper hand. He knows exactly how to wear me down, and if I let him, he’ll win. But only if I let him. The problem is: I’m unsure whether or not I want him to, as twisted as that is.
Peeling off my jean jacket, I expose my weapon. Assuring he sees it before I toss the soaked garment to the floor and pull my shirt down over my belt holster.
“That the best intimidation tactic you got? Am I supposed to be coerced by the gun or the wet T-shirt.” He smiles. “Want to see my tactic?”
I back up a step as he makes a move to stand—but he stops, releasing an abrupt laugh. Shaking his head, he says, “Let’s just get this part over with. I know you have a job to do. So do it.” He runs a hand through his disheveled black hair, relaxing back into his seat. “I’m getting anxious to move on to more…interesting things.”
For all my training, all those years invested in detecting human behavior, when it comes to Colton, I find myself unwilling to employ mind games. Simple psychological variables: personality traits; psychopathologies and behavioral patterns. Age, race, childhood—comparisons to the profile. They all muddle my thoughts as I analyze the man before me.
I could go at this with the best interrogation strategies I have in my arsenal…but I’m already biased. It’s now personal. Rip the Band-Aid off. Everything out in the open. Because if he is the UNSUB, he’s already mastered the art of performance.
One last deep breath, then, “Why the Blood Countess?” I hold his intense stare, don’t blink. Neither does he. “Was your choice to emulate Bathory primarily based on me, or was she already a part of the scheme, and I just happened to fulfill an important role?”
His eyebrows knit together tightly. “I have no fucking idea what you’re asking me.”
All right. Now I at least know his angle; he’s not giving anything away. Wants to continue to play the game.
Slowly, I move closer to him, stopping before the coffee table in the center of the room. A solid object between us. “I could spend a few hours digging for the answer, but I’m wet and tired. Just tell me, Colton. Have you ever attended the Rope Gala in Vienna?”
His eyes beam, lips twisting into a suggestive smirk. “I’m impressed. You’ve been doing your homework.” He stands and pushes his hands into his pockets. “Of course I’ve gone. It’s the top underground Shibari themed event for over the past two years. Anyone who takes Shibari as a serious art form attends.” He cocks his head. “But something tells me you already knew this. So what are you really asking?”
The moment of truth. I’ve gotten the answer I came here for—the one that was supposed to set me free. Reveal exactly who Colton Reed is, and why he fused himself into my life.
Only it’s not enough. It’s circumstantial. I could break down all the evidence, analyze every piece of the puzzle through a psychological microscope and link it back to him, but I know it will never hold up. It’s just us—Colton and me—who are teetering on this weak fact…and all I truly have is suspicion.
Even Quinn pointed out how weak the lead was, but I had to follow my instinct. It was instinct, wasn’t it? Suddenly, as I stand here damp and vulnerable before Colton, I question how much of it was my own fear.
Do I want him to be the UNSUB? Do I need him to be?
“On your last trip, did you bring any special rope back with you?” I ask.
“No.” His face dims as he takes one, then two steps closer. “I shipped it to myself. But just the threads. I make my own rope.”
My lips part, next question poised on my lips, but he rushes me before they’re set free. His arms circle me and he clasps my arms behind my back, his face inches from mine.
My lungs struggle to accept air as his body presses hard against mine. My cold, wet shirt stings my skin. “You’re working that serial killer case,” he says evenly, almost an accusation.
Words fail, but I manage to nod my head once.
The twist of his lips is the only indication I may have a chance to gain control. But then with swift reflexes, he secures both my
wrists with a thin rope. Panic flares.
