Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher (For Me 2)

Anger pulsed through him and he swung back to fully face her. “Why do you always do that?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Marshal, you don’t know me well enough to say what I always—”

“Cut the marshal bullshit.” His control was too frayed. She wasn’t going to deny what they’d been to each other. “I know you. I know you drink chocolate milk for breakfast, your favorite color’s blue, and you never go to see a movie that you think might have a sad ending without Googling the damn thing first.” His breath hissed out from between his clenched teeth. “When you come, your eyes get even brighter and you make a little moan in the back of your throat.”

“Anthony—”

That was an improvement. At least he wasn’t Marshal. But it still wasn’t enough. “I know you,” he bit out as his eyes swept over her. “As well as anyone can know you. As well as you let anyone know you.”

She stepped back. “You’re not supposed to do that.” Her voice was a whisper. “You’re not supposed to make this personal.”

It was personal. Always had been. He crossed the room and curled his fingers around her shoulders. He pulled her closer, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted her flush against him. Wanted her under him. Wanted in her. Hold back. Don’t do it. “What else would it be for us?”

She lifted her chin, exposing the pale column of her throat. He knew her, all right. Knew she’d always liked it when he kissed her throat. The sensitive spot right over her racing pulse.

“There isn’t an us anymore. There hasn’t been. Not since you walked away.”

She’d been an ever-growing obsession for him. He’d needed her, day and f**king night, and she—she’d been so controlled. Holding all of her emotions in check.

Except when they were in bed. That was the only time she let go.

“I asked you to stay, but you didn’t.”

His eyes narrowed. There was anger in her voice. “You didn’t give me a reason to stay.”

“I wasn’t reason enough?” Then she shook her head and jerked against his hold. “Let me go, Tony.”

Tony. She’d called him that, years ago. Her voice whispering with desire.

“You were right about us,” she said, “it was just sex. The sex ended. We both moved on.”

He’d left town, but he’d never been able to move on. Not really. Every place he’d gone, she’d been with him. In his memories. Fucking always. When he’d seen that picture in Walker’s cell…

I carry a picture of her, too. Does it make me as f**king twisted and obsessed as Walker?

Judging by his past, yeah, it did.

“Who I’m with shouldn’t matter to you,” Lauren said.

Maybe if he kept telling himself that another hundred times or so… “I think about you.” A confession that was torn from him. “Too damn much.” He turned away, and this time, he did cross the threshold that would take him to his cold, empty room. “But that was always one of our problems.”

She didn’t call out to stop him. He shut the door behind him. Held himself still.

Lauren didn’t know about his family. Few people did. Those secrets were buried, just like his parents were.

The father who’d been too obsessed. The mother who’d just wanted to get away.

Death had been his mother’s only escape.

I won’t ever be like him.

Yet when he was near Lauren, those needs—too strong—rose within him.

From the other side of the door, he heard the floor creaking. Lauren, coming toward him. Coming after him?

His heart began to beat faster. He turned and flattened his palm on the door.

Then he heard the lock click.

His smile was grim. He should have damn well seen that one coming.

The motorcycle braked in the woods. The only light was from the moon and stars, glittering faintly in the sky.

Stacy jumped from the bike. Scurried back. “Ben, this isn’t funny.”

He climbed from the bike. Took off his helmet. Tossed it to the ground as he faced her. “No, it isn’t.”

Her breath rushed out. Her eyes widened. She stumbled back. Her eyes were wide as she stared up at him. “Jon?” Then she shook her head. “Y-you shouldn’t be here. The cops—a marshal—was just looking for you!” Her voice trembled with fear.

She was right to be afraid.

Then her gaze dropped to the motorcycle. “That’s Ben’s bike.”

It was. The streak of yellow-and-gold fire rushing down the side was rather distinctive. The fire was set to reflect in the darkness—a rather interesting touch, he had to admit.

“Where’s Ben?”

The insects had quieted down. Her stark whisper carried so easily in the night.

“Ben let me borrow his bike,” he said, unable to stop the smile that slid across his face. This was gonna be so much fun. “But don’t worry about him right now. This is about us, just us.”

Terror was stamped on her face. She’d never looked at him that way before. Stacy had been the one to get dragged from the courtroom as she shouted his innocence. She’d been the one to tell him, again and again, that the truth would come out eventually.

The truth had come out. She’d been too blind to see it.

“What changed?” he asked, actually curious. It wouldn’t alter his plans, nothing would change them, but he did want to know when she’d lost her faith in him.

Her hand rose to her neck. Fumbled with the small gold chain there. “I found it.”

“Found what?”

“That woman’s necklace. Ginger Thomas! You put her necklace in my jewelry box!” She screamed the last at him. There was no one around to hear her screams, but he wouldn’t let her scream for long.

He shook his head. “I didn’t put the necklace in your box.”

She shook her head. “You did! You killed those women and you—”

“I didn’t put the necklace in your box,” he said once more as he closed in on her. Stacy didn’t even try to run. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was fear. His hands locked around her, and he jerked her up against him. “But just so you know, I did kill those women.”

Her mouth dropped in surprise.

“And I’m going to kill you.”

She tried to scream. No time for that. His knife sliced across her throat.

She stared at him, her eyes desperate and wild, as a faint, keening gurgle came from her throat.