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“We’ll see.”
“That’s the deal, Alex. Either you agree, or I walk away from all of this, from you—”
“I’ll agree to your terms,” I say, “but I need collateral. Something to ensure you won’t make a rash decision.”
She shakes her head. “Like what?”
“Like the switchblade,” I say, gauging her wary response. “I want the murder weapon.”
Realization opens her expression. Pushing her hands between us, she slides her palms up my bare chest to break us apart. “It’s the only evidence that will prove who killed Ericson.”
“It’s what we need to frame Brewster.”It’s what I need to ensure she’s never tied to the murder.
A moment of indecision, where she glances at the bedroom door, then she releases a resigned breath. “Fine.” She rubs her arm as she crosses to the living area, saying over her shoulder, “I didn’t feel safe leaving it in my apartment.” She digs through her bag.
A sprig of anger shoots up my spine, coiling my bones in tension. She’s had the evidence to put her away on her person this whole time. “That’s exceedingly dangerous, and selfish.”
Stalled in the bedroom doorframe, she cocks her head. “Oh, was I supposed to leave it in my apartment for you to steal? You’re right, how selfish of me.”
I walk toward her and hold out my hand. With stoic acceptance, she lays the plastic-wrapped knife in my palm.
“I’ll put it somewhere safe,” I say.
“Or, you can cut that fucking thing off your leg,” she counters.
I almost smile, hearing some of the tough Blakely slipping through her weakened cracks.
“Help me,” I ask her.
We look at each other, the insinuation clear I’m asking for more than her help with removing the watch.
“But obviously, not with this.” I set the switchblade aside on the dresser and head into the bathroom, returning with a roll of bandage and a razor blade.
“No wire cutters?” she says, sarcasm hedging her tone. “Damn. This is going to be painful.”
And it is painful. But not unbearable. As I lie on my back and observe, there is something so darkly erotic about watching Blakely wield a blade. The way she traps the corner of her lip between her teeth as she concentrates. How focused she is on the task, almost absorbed, never flinching with sympathy, never squeamish.
I might worry she’s experiencing some form of residual setback from the procedure, reverting to her former self—but it’s like watching a surgeon operate rather than a butcher dismember. Blakely is finding a way to channel her emotions to override the erratic extremes.
If she can utilize this strength for what comes next… I have to admit, it’s exciting me just thinking about it.
Once the offending object and its incessant ticking has been removed, Blakely stares at the clock face, some faraway look clouding her eyes, before she sets the razor blade on the nightstand.
She flips the antique Rolex over, inspecting the backing. “You should take it apart and see if there are any surprises waiting for when the clock strikes the looming hour.”
But I’m no longer interested in clocks or threats. I reach out and take the object from her hand, toss it on the bed. She’s braless under my shirt, and I swear she never looks sexier than when she’s wearing my clothes.
While she was removing the wires, I felt nothing—no pain, no tension, just the misery of being so near her, watching her nipples rub against the thin material as she worked, a tantalizing tease that I can’t touch her whenever I want.
Which is all the time.
I lift my hand to her face and use my thumb to clear away a smudge of dirt on her cheek. We’re still filthy from dirty sex in a dirty bathroom. “Take a shower with me,” I say.
Her eyes hold mine, my request loaded with far more heated desire than simply getting clean.
“Yes,” she breathes.
I want to taste that word on her lips.
