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As soon as the thought occurs, something akin to guilt punches my stomach. For all my intelligence, I suddenly feel the dullest haze of sublime stupidity. Of course she’s reaching out to any link tied to me. Of course she’d uncover the common denominator between herself and Sullivan.
I opened the pathways of her brain to a whole new experience, one heightened and volatile and frightening, and then, when I didn’t return for her, I abandoned her. Left her to fend for herself in a confused state.
I picture Blakely through the flames as they engulf the cabin interior—that image of her seared into my memory, a nightmare I can’t wake from. I relive it over and over, the moment our eyes met across the fire, the split second where I questioned her choice as the pained expression tore at her features.
I should have leapt through the flames for her.
If I could wind back time, I would never have let her go.
“Shit.” Now she’s seeking answers from the one source that could destroy us.
I need to know what psychobabble Dr. Noble is feeding her. What she plans to do with the information Blakely has so blatantly and irresponsibly supplied to her about me and my project.
I need to pay my own visit to Dr. Noble.
As I head toward the stairs, I spy Blakely’s open bedroom area, and I can’t resist the temptation. Her bed is right there. Unmade. Covers bunched in the center. I can envision her curled into them, her arms hugging her pillow, soft tresses of blond hair falling over her face.
Then, as I close the distance, my gaze snags on something white balled up beneath her pillow. I extract the garment and hold it out to examine.
I recognize the shirt right away, because it’s one of mine.
Blakely sleeps with my T-shirt.
A devious flare of arousal courses my blood, going straight to my groin. I bring the fabric to my nose and inhale, recognizing the scent of my cologne. I smile.
She may picture my face when she’s jabbing a punching bag, but she clings to my scent at night when she’s fearful, when she needs comfort—and that knowledge is powerful.
I tuck the shirt beneath the pillow where it belongs.
As I descend the loft, my senses pick up on something out of place. Standing at the base of the staircase, I keep my back to the kitchen and scan the living area, noting every detail. The front door is closed. Locked. The apartment is quiet, but there’s a draft.
Too late, I catch the flutter of linen curtains and the open window.
I turn toward the kitchen, and he’s already standing before me.
My skin ices over. Every artery inside my body seizes. My heart beats manically in my chest, trying to force blood flow, but my mind is overriding basic bodily functions as I stare into the cold eyes of a killer.
Grayson Sullivan.
The Angel of Maine.
The monster who murdered my sister.
“You,” I say, my voice some distant construct of my thoughts.
Sullivan lifts his chin, pale eyes boring into me with menacing intent. “Dr. Alex Chambers. You’ve been very busy making a mess.”
Confusion draws my features tight, but I don’t get the chance to question him. We both move instantaneously. I go for his middle, he aims for my face.
Amid the violent clash, I lose consciousness.
The room goes dark.
Blakely’s scent is the last thing to fade from my senses.
29
ANGEL OF MERCY
