Grayson

The expression on her face is worth the risk. I step into London’s office and quietly shut the door behind me. The muted click echoes around us, sealing us inside. “Hi, doc.”

Her fists unclench. “Jesus, Grayson. What are you doing here? Are you—?”

“Crazy?” I supply.

She drops her purse on the desk. “I’m being watched. Your actions are reckless. If you were my patient—”

“I still am—”

“—I would suggest you were devolving. Becoming unbalanced. And yes, maybe a touch crazy.” She bites her bottom lip. “And you are not my patient.”

“What am I, then?” I cross the room, coming up close enough to smell her lilac body lotion. The lavender notes in her hair.

She visibly shivers as she looks up at me. “Dangerous.”

Her hair is down, falling in a loose tumble over her shoulders. The way I love it; like she knew I was coming. I push the strands behind her ear, leaning in to whisper, “And you’re a paradox.”

A current snaps between us, and she physically reacts to my nearness, my touch. The air is electrified. I feel the hitch in her breath as it pulses across my skin. Slowly, I remove her glasses and lay them on the desk, revealing her eyes.

“Besides,” I say as I step back, taking her hand in mine. “By all accounts, this is the safest place to be.” I lead her to the adjourning hall, and she allows me. I swipe a finger along the fish tank, giving her a wink. “Good memories.”

Before she can react, I push her up against the glass, grip her waist. The rooms are dark, but she’s lit by the glow of the tank. I draw close to her mouth, watching the way her face twists as if she’s in pain. That same fiery ache scorches my body. Just the threat of touching her skin burns.

The best kind of anticipation.

“A paradox isn’t exactly a compliment,” she says, her voice a low rasp.

Mouth hovering near hers, I find her gaze. “It is if one enjoys puzzles.” I brush my lips across hers, the softest tease. “You’re my favorite puzzle, London.”

Her hands seek my arms, nails digging into the material of my shirt. As if she’s just as desperate for the fire to singe her. “This isn’t a game.”

I slide my hands up her slim waist, grazing the sides of her breasts, until I reach her neck, where I fasten my fingers to her nape and tip her head back, thumbs imprinting her jawline. She’s such a perfect fit.

“Sometimes I forget you like your patients easy to control,” I say. “I suppose that goes for your men, too.”

Heat flushes her face. “Thrill-seeking behavior isn’t like you. It will get you caught.” Her eyes flare. “Again.”

My mouth curls into a smile. “How do you know that I didn’t get caught on purpose last time?”

Her gaze flicks over my face as she tries to decipher the truth. “Did you?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’ve been off the clock for a long time, doc.”

“Grayson—” She attempts to push me away, but it’s halfhearted. “The FBI can show up here at any time. I’m not safe.”

I stare down at her strained features. She’s serious. She’s afraid for me. With a tender touch, I caress her cheek. “Then let’s give them a show.”

Defiance sparks in her eyes. Dr. London doesn’t back down from a dare.

“I see you,” I whisper against her lips. “I could feel your pain from fucking miles away. I know what you need.” I capture her mouth, crushing our lips together. I drown out the world and its threats—the fear, the pain—with one kiss.

She’s the only thing that makes the compulsions quiet. A still reed in my storm.

London kisses me back with a hard demand that bruises my mouth. Pleasure courses my system, and I crave more. There’s no give; only take. We’re feeding off each other.

I bracket her wrists to the glass, stealing her control. She hates and loves the loss of her willpower. The same way she hates to love me—but I’m her own sick compulsion, the need driving her actions in spite of her judgment.

She bites into the kiss and draws blood. The action stirs my desire, pouring liquid fire into my veins. Pain and pleasure receptors fight for dominance. Seeking air, she turns away to break the kiss.

“Stop,” she says with a pant. “You have to go.”

Anger ignites in a flash, searing as hot as my want for her. “Is this London talking or Lydia?”

Her heated gaze matches my fire, but her body planks, hard as ice. She wrenches her wrists free and shoves me aside. Agony is the loss of her touch.

She enters the dark therapy room, crosses her arms over her chest. “Where did you acquire the uniform?”

Ironic. The good doctor using avoidance.

I lean against the wall at the end of the gallery, tracking her movements as she switches on a lamp. “The guards leave them in their lockers overnight,” I say, and begin to unbutton the shirt. “Figured no one would question a security officer roaming the building.” I tug off the uniform shirt and toss it on the slender writing desk, then I untuck the white T-shirt from my slacks. “But that’s not what you’re asking.”

She faces me, features cast in stern assessment. “Considering the last time you stole a uniform? No, it’s not. I want to know if anyone in my building was harmed.”

“Are you truly concerned? Or are you worried about an investigation that could connect you?”

She inhales a deep breath. “You know that would be unwise.”

She’s right, of course. My behavior is borderline Neanderthal. I could whip my dick out and start marking my territory and it wouldn’t shock her. She’s assessing me right now, anticipating my next move.

I start toward her. “I didn’t harm anyone.” That’s not a lie. Lawson is still alive and intact.

She nods. “You have to find a way to alert me. Let me know…” She trails off with a huff of frustration. “It’s not fair that you know where I am at any given moment, and I have no idea where you are.”

I stop short of reaching her. There it is, the root of her anger. It brings a crooked smile to my face. “Being on the run gets tedious. Makes for a dull romance.” I push the patient chair aside and kick the rug away, revealing the floor manacle. “Do you want me to take a seat? So you can dig around in my mind. Get your doctor rocks off.”

She’s not amused. “I just want a head’s up, Grayson. I don’t like surprises.”

I crane an eyebrow. “Like our agent friend gives you? He’s so well behaved, isn’t he?”

I can almost feel her hackles raise. “You’re being hostile,” she accuses.

“I’m bored, London. There’s a difference.” I sit in the chair. “I bet you have some extra chains and cuffs around here.”

She moves closer. “You trust me that much? To shackle you…to take away your ability to escape?”

“I trust your reasoning to do so, if it came to that.”

The room grows quiet with the heavy pause. London runs her palms down her skirt, working out imaginary creases. “You’d pick the lock, regardless,” she says. “Where did you learn that talent, anyway?”

I gift her a smile, avoiding her question just the same. “You felt more in control when I was locked up. Maybe that’s the spark that’s missing. Don’t you feel it lately? Like something is amiss?”

“Are you jealous of Agent Nelson?” she asks outright, shifting the topic. No dancing around a matter when her professional mask is in place.

“He’s a man obsessed,” I say. “I can’t be jealous. I empathize… No, that’s wrong. I pity him.”

Nothing compares to the ecstasy I feel with London. If I’m being honest, this is a poor attempt to fill the well. Once you ascend so high, the plummet afterward leaves a gaping hole, the addiction that much harder to feed.

I understand Nelson’s urges all too well. The driving need to see her…hear her voice…plot the moment they’ll meet. I really do pity him.

The seething look London sends me ignites my skin.

“His mind is probably a chew toy by now.” I rub my palms along the leather arms of the chair, enjoying the freedom I never experienced here before.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says, drawing my attention up to her. “I’m not evaluating him.”

My brows crease. “You’re such a fucking paradox.”

“I’m not playing mind games with you, Grayson.”

“And yet, you’re dying to know.”

A battle of wills arcs between us. She yields first. “All right. Tell me why, then.”

“Because of your desire to embrace Lydia.” I can be pointblank, too. “To be this better version that you believe was stolen away. Don’t deny it. You forget that I know you.”

Her walls erect. She’s shielding Lydia from London’s world, which means hiding this part of herself from me.

Dangerous.

Her word. I pose a threat to this fragile part of her that she desperately wants to protect. The way she couldn’t protect her or her sister. Psychology is a nasty little twist.

“I’m not embracing anything,” she finally says. “Lydia Prescott would not be here right now. She wouldn’t be with you. Clearly, I am.”

I study her closely. How much of a threat does Lydia pose to us? “I think I could seduce Lydia,” I say.

“How very cocky of you.” London shakes her head. “Is that a challenge?”

“You know how much I enjoy a challenge.”

She searches her suit pocket for her string. “I won’t let you turn this into a sordid game,” she says, wrapping the black thread around her finger.

“It’s not a game to me.” I sit forward. “Who else are you going to confide in?”

Something sparks in her eyes as she looks at me. “You want to…what? Analyze me? Work through my feelings?”

I nod to the chair across from me. Her chair.

She releases a lengthy breath. “You’re intelligent, Grayson. You’ve probably memorized every disorder in the book, but you’re hardly qualified.”

“And you don’t trust me,” I clarify for her. “Not with your mind.”

She shrugs. “One could argue it’s not so much distrust in you, rather than the fact that I manipulated my own patients, resulting in my distrust of everyone.”

“That’s a start.” I nod again to her chair.

“We don’t have time for this.” She rubs at her forehead.

“If it’s affecting you, we make time.”

Seconds pass where she considers her options, then she brings the chair up to the yellow line. I’m not shackled, nor am I a physical danger to her. She’s mentally distancing herself from me in her safe zone.

“Tell me about Lydia.” It’s the easiest place to start.

Her gaze settles on me. “Lydia would never betray her patients.”

I smile slightly, urging her on.

“Lydia would never forget her parents. She would never lie to the authorities, or aid and abet a criminal. Especially a killer.” A beat. “Lydia would never be aroused right now.”

Her words bridge the expanse between us and grip me. I dig my fingers into the armrest, maintaining control. London is the master when it comes to psychological warfare. She knows how to distract me, but I’m not her doctor.

I’m her conduit.

“What would Lydia do?” I prompt.

She huffs a derisive breath. “That, I don’t know.”

“When thoughts of Lydia arise, how do you feel?”

“Distanced. Outside myself. I believe I’m experiencing a mild form of depersonalization induced by high-anxiety.” She clings to the thread in her hand. “Some form of disassociation.”

“How do you deal with anxiety?”

Her breath stutters. “I immerse myself in work. In my patients.”

“A distraction?”

She shakes her head. “No…a form of therapy. A way to retain control.” Her string is wound so tightly around her finger the tip turns white.

I scrutinize her, letting my gaze travel leisurely over her demurely crossed ankles, her legs, body. She’s tense; able to feel my perusal like an invasive touch. “Who feels more out of control?” I ask. “Lydia or London?”

Her eyes meet mine. “Right now, Lydia. She wouldn’t open herself up like this.”

“Not to me,” I complete her thought. I sit back, run my hand over my forearm, drawing her attention to the ink and scars. I even allow my accent to bleed through. “How do I make Lydia feel?”

“Grayson…” She touches her forehead again to create a barrier. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Answer.”

Her gaze locks on to mine. “If I never became the person I became, then I’d feel intimidated. Scared. Anxious. But more than anything…curious.”

A smile slants my mouth. “I do make good girls curious. It’s the lure. That indefinable characteristic we both have. What attracts prey to predator.”

Her breathing intensifies. “Lydia would only be prey to you.”

“You’re not giving her enough credit. She’s stronger than you think. Spread your legs.”

Caught off guard, she directs a lethal glare my way. “That’s unethical.”

I slide my chair forward and, sitting back down, kick her ankles apart. “Wide.”

Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breathing labored. With more reserve than I feel, London casually inches her skirt up and parts her knees.

“Wider,” I say, voice thick.

She spreads her thighs until her knees nearly touch the armrests.

I lick my lips as I take in every inch of her exposed skin, feeling no shame. “I want to talk to Lydia only.”

A tense tremor of lust crackles the air. Just her exposed position makes every word I say suggestive, erotic. Evoking the emotions London is trying to suppress.

“Recently,” I say, “I conducted an important meeting with a man who’s working the crime scenes in Rockland.”

Her eyes widen. “Grayson, what—?”

“Listen,” I cut her off. “I’m talking to Lydia right now. She would never interrupt me, would she?”

I like this would never game. It’s useful.

The column of her throat drags upward in a hard swallow. “No manipulation,” she says.

“I would never harm you.” I admire London’s intelligence too much to try to twist her in that way. “I just want to get to know Lydia. Understand this side of you. It’s important to me.”

She concedes with a nod.

“Take off your suit jacket.”

This time, she complies without resistance. She removes her jacket and drapes it across the back of her chair.

“The second murder in Rockland has helped narrow the suspect pool,” I say.

She blinks rapidly. “How did you select the victim?”

“I didn’t. The copycat did.”

She narrows her gaze, uncertain.

“You thought it was me,” I say, reverent. Her guarded behavior makes sense now.

London lifts her chin. “I wasn’t sure, to be honest. The time between murders seemed too quick. The method was easily enough mimicked, more simplistic—” she licks her lips “—but it was also more impulsive, personalized. I thought the copycat would need more time to be sure it was you before making a move.”

I tilt my head. “If you thought it was me, then you must’ve been worried. Nervous that I’d give us away.”

“Your compulsion to torture and take life will always dominate you,” she says coldly.

“Regardless of us,” I add.

“Regardless of anyone or anything, but yes.”

I study her closer. Look for her tells. “And if I was devolving, what lengths would you go to in order to protect yourself? To protect Lydia?”

“That’s an unfair question,” she says. “Since you clearly kept me in the dark about the suspect that you’d already discovered beforehand, I have to assume you did so on purpose to test me.”

I smile. “We’re a team, London. You already passed my tests.”

She closes her legs. “This is not a team dynamic. I don’t know what this is but…it’s not anything I can classify.”

“There’s no alpha,” I say, agreeing with her assessment. “There always has to be a dominant in a duo.”

“Precisely.”

“But whose rule is that?”

She reflexively rubs at the inked key along her hand. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve already proven that it’s important. We’ll unravel, otherwise. Trust doesn’t come easily between two people who have suffered an early life trauma.” She sucks in a breath. “Someone has to take charge.”

Having a partner is a new experience for me, and for London. It’s like dancing, figuring out who will lead.

“It should be you,” I decide.

She looks up from toying with her string. “Why?”

“Because you’re able to reside in public. You have a reputable career. You’re above reproach. And, because I do trust you, London. As long as Lydia doesn’t call the shots.”

She considers this a moment, then: “A submissive partner typically employs manipulative tactics to sway and control the dominant. I suppose that describes us quite accurately.” Her light laugh dances over my skin.

“Let’s consider it foreplay,” I say.

“Wait—” Her amused expression drops. “Who is the suspect? I need to know so I can get an understanding of their motive. A copycat isn’t that different from a typical serial offender, but there are marked variances. They have a reason as to why they’re motivated to kill. Is it an obsessed fan? No.” She dismisses that right away. “Not all the details were revealed to the public. That means—”

“The copycat has inside knowledge.” Had she not been sidetracked with the Mize investigation, London would’ve figured this out sooner. Makes me wonder if the derailment was done to her on purpose.

After a moment of thought, she shakes her head. “No. That is a huge reach, Grayson. You’re trying to take the game to a level that—besides risking you, me, everything—will end badly.”

“This isn’t a theory, London. It’s a fact. Only two men fit the copycat profile. Which means either Detective Foster or Agent Nelson has been moonlighting as the Angel of Maine.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She swipes her bangs from her forehead, dismissing the theory. “How do the Rockland crime scenes confirm this?”

“This person has done his own study on me, adopting my MO. He’s good. Good enough to fool most, but as you know, method is ritual. Signature excites. The compulsion to experience the kill…the temptation to make it his own… Every man falls victim to pride. We’re simple beasts.” I shrug, indifferent. “It’s where we fail.”

“How did you collect this information?”

“I took a chance,” I admit. “Which I may regret later, but we needed the intel.” She raises an eyebrow, not impressed. “One of the CSU techs has a weakness for call girls.”

She sighs heavily. “You left him alive.”

“My affections for you apparently make me soft.” I smile. “How would Lydia feel about this topic of conversation?”

She inches her legs open as she relaxes into the chair. “Intrigued.”

Good. “I gathered enough to know that my suspicion on the signature is accurate. He mimics everything, like a perfect echo, except for one flaw: He indulges himself at the end. My kills are about technique, the design. He enjoys feeling the life he’s taking leave the body. He can’t help himself.

“Every trap he crafted allowed for contusions around the victims’ necks. Easily disguised behind the design itself, but if you look closely, you understand why he rigged it this way. So he—not the trap—could kill them.” Disgust roils through me. “It’s an insult to my craft, really.”

London slips her fingers over her thigh. This part always excited her—the details.

“That’s why Larry’s death had to be different; a shift in MO,” I continue. “Allowing the killer to get closer to the victim, delivering a more personalized death. We had to test the theory.”

Her hand stills. “We? I wasn’t a part of your scheme. You kept me in the dark.”

I push my hands along the armrests. “You were too close to both Foster and Nelson. Any indication that you were aware of either one of them could put you in danger.”

“I don’t buy that, Grayson. I think it comes back to trust. You’re still operating solo. I have the perfect position to evaluate their behavior.”

My reflexive instinct is to deny her allegation, but I stop myself. We’re governed by our fears, and I’ve feared losing London since the moment I found her. Despite my intelligence level, I’m no different than the average man, fearing rejection, loss.

“You’re right,” I admit. Her eyebrows hike at my admission. “There was a giant, unknown variable around your past and how you’d respond to all the emerging details.”

She touches her tattoo key again, thoughtful. “As you can see, it’s been difficult.”

Something akin to guilt slices through me. “I’m here now,” I say. “You don’t have to work through your dissociation alone.” I plan to work Lydia right out of her system.

Her gaze narrows; always assessing. “I don’t like the distance I’ve felt between us for the past two weeks. Even while you were in prison, even with the weeks of separation after you escaped, I didn’t feel the disconnect the way I do now.” She releases a breath. “Partly my doing, I admit. Outside pressures are causing us both strain.”

“You’re risking everything,” I tell her.

Her eyes find and hold mine. “It’s my choice.”

I believe her. I bury the doubt. “I won’t let it happen again.”

And like that, London and I are in sync, an effortless team.

“Agreed.” She gifts me a sultry smile. “So let’s think about this logically and logistically. No matter who the copycat is, we’re still ending it here.”

“That’s an inevitability. The chase and running becomes tiring. Neither side can go on forever. Better to end it on our terms.”

She considers this a while, and adds, “We need both of them.”

I nod. “They each have a distinct role.”

“Detective Foster is a brute. He’d be capable, and he hardly exhibits enough patience in his own investigations. There’s a lot of similarity.”

My skin hums as she breaks it down. Her mind excites me. “I’ve been considering as much. But Agent Nelson suffered a setback at work over the past year. That’s a…what is it called?”

“Stressor,” she supplies.

“Stressor. His FBI career is his life. Something threatening that, like not closing enough cases, could send a perfectionist like him over the edge.”

Her fingers halt their ascent along her leg, and the sudden dimness covering her expression dampens my libido. “Nelson had another setback recently,” she says. “I rejected his advances.”

A slow curling fire licks the back of my neck. “Interesting,” I say, my voice grinding out like gravel. The primal Neanderthal inside me rears up, London in danger of a brutal fucking where I stake my claim like the carnal animal she makes me.

“Do you think he suspects us?” she asks.

It’s an intelligent estimate. If Nelson believes, like Foster, that London is in fact my accomplice, then pushing his way into my territory is the natural order for beasts like us.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “Regardless of his motivations, I have no doubt that he wants you.” And that realization sears what’s left of my control.

As if she senses my waning restraint, London arches her back, slipping her hand higher and dragging her fitted skirt up her thighs.

“It would be even more interesting if there was a partnership at hand. Two unlikely allies, teaming up to hunt killers. Who in turn become killers themselves.” What are the odds?

But something has shifted in her demeanor. This discussion is over. “How did you work the information from the tech?” Her voice is breathy.

“Who wants to know? London or Lydia?”

“Both.”

Finding a way to unify the conflicting shores at war within her is key. I can’t have any part of London as my enemy.

“I Zip Tied his cock to his wrists and rigged it so if he moved, even a millimeter, the tie would cinch closed. I can only imagine how painful it was for him every time he struggled. How does that make Lydia feel?”

“Aroused.”

I sink my teeth into my lip, fingers gripping the armrest.

“And you think he won’t report this?” she asks.

“I think that he doesn’t want anyone to know how he ended up in such a compromising—not to mention humiliating—situation. Especially his wife.”

“Still, you took a risk.”

I stand and, reaching behind my head, tug off my shirt. I walk forward to stand before her. She’s trembling. Lust glazes her eyes.

I palm the arms of the chair and lean over her. “Everything I do, every single day, is a risk for you.” Then I kneel, cupping the back of her knee. With a forceful tug, I bring her farther down, her ass positioned at the edge of the seat.

Her sharp inhale sends a thrill right to my cock as I plant a tender kiss to her inner thigh. I travel up her skin, tongue dragging across the rising gooseflesh, kissing and sucking with gentle touches.

“Is this a new form of torture?” she says, chest heaving against her blouse.

I smile against her leg, and reach up to start working the bottom button of her top. I guide my hand beneath her skirt, settling at the apex between her thighs, as I drop a heated kiss to her exposed belly.

“I can be romantic,” I say, hooking a finger beneath the seat of her panties. She’s hot, wet, drenching them. “I can make love to Lydia and fuck London at the same time.” I haul the thin material down to her knees, causing her to quake with a hard shiver.

Her hands go to my hair, fingers, nails seeking purchase. Then I’m undoing each button, reverently opening her up to me as I kiss a path toward her chest. Her light-pink satin bra is trimmed in black lace. That does something to me—the sight so innocent and sexy all at once.

A heavy groan tears free. I’m straining against the zipper of my pants. Every roll of her hips and arch of her back drives me wild; Lydia doesn’t stand a chance. I sink both hands under her ass and prop her pelvis up, getting unfettered access as I bury my head between her thighs.

I suck her soft lips into my mouth, eliciting the sweetest moan as a tremor riots through her body.

Pulling back just enough, I say, “Whenever Lydia fights for control, think of me touching you. Just like this.”

“God, if we start, we’ll never stop. You have to let me go.”

“Never. I got you right where I want you.”

A ringtone sounds from the office. London’s cellphone. She opens her eyes, the spell broken. “It’s him.”