“Do it,” I command.
Her hand steadies. The cold steel a tantalizing tease to my heated flesh.
“Close your eyes, Grayson.” Her voice is throaty and raw, wrapping me in her cruel, loving embrace.
I push against the knife, drawing blood. “I want to see the satisfaction it brings you.”
Her delicate neck pulses with a strained swallow. I feel the force of it in my throat. My thirst for her never quenched. Even now, as she grips the weapon with both hands and begins to drag the blade across my skin, I yearn to taste her one more time.
Death at my lover’s hand. The ultimate reward and punishment for our perfection.
I couldn’t ask for a more perfect ending.
24
Corpus Delicti
London
“Drop the weapon!”
My hands still, the blade trembles with my restraint. A thin line of red beads and drips down Grayson’s throat. I stare at the blood, the poison flowing out.
I recognize the gruff boom of the voice. I hold my place, not lowering the knife.
I have to finish this.
“I said, drop it, London,” Detective Foster shouts, his gun aimed at me.
“She can’t.” Nelson turns his weapon on Foster. “She doesn’t have a choice. She has to kill him.”
I glance at the detective. Foster’s confusion results in his aim bouncing from me to Nelson. “What’s going on?” Foster demands.
Nelson makes a move to his left.
“Don’t—” The sound of the gun safety clicking off reverberates around the tense room. The agent halts movement, the standoff between them thickening the air, suffocating.
I use the distraction to gauge Grayson’s condition. He’s weakening. Sweat dots his forehead, his facial muscles tic, muscles spasm. I know the symptoms; I memorized them. Soon, convulsions will take hold.
He doesn’t have long.
This scenario has two contingencies: Foster’s arrival sets the first in motion.
“I’m ready,” Grayson says. “You’re ready.”
I suck in a fortifying breath. Then: “You’ve been chasing a copycat,” I tell Foster. I catch and hold his gaze. His Glock is still directed at Nelson. “The murders in Brunswick and Minneapolis. The second Rockland victim. Even the prostitute that you stumbled on to…” I let the truth of my words drift over him. “And you’ve been so close to catching the killer. Working alongside him nearly every day of the investigation.”
His thick brows draw together. As realization sets in, he focuses on the man in his sights. “I knew something was off with you.”
Nelson adjusts his stance, rolling his shoulders and lifting his chin. “You’re not a part of this, Foster. You’re a bumbling, reject detective, and you’re officially off the case.”
A gunshot fires.
The silence breaks. Gunfire cracks with a resounding echo, leaving behind a muted ringing in my ears. On startled reflex, I drop the knife. Grayson pulls me down against the container and positions his body over mine.
A loud groan of pain, and then another shot rings out.
“I hate guns.” Grayson’s voice is barely audible through the gauzy stuffing filling my ears. “This how you want to announce your legacy, Nelson!” he yells. “Gunning down your victims… Not very original.”