Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
She’s so alone. Night after night. She pushes people away. She’s built herself a prison and calls it safe.
I turn the page, and my whole body goes rigid.
The man on the page is more than familiar. Dark hair, glaring eyes—it’s me.
How does she know? She hasn’t seen me.
She was blindfolded at her own request.
She’s never seen my face. Right?
I’m questioning everything.
This is the extent of her gift. This is what she’s hiding and why she works so hard to keep the world at bay.
My hand shakes as I turn the page. There I am again. In this one, I’m in a thoughtful pose. Perched on my hand is a little bird with a distinct pair of tail feathers.
A swallow.
I shut the sketchbook, my throat dry. This is too much.
She’s won this round. I am undone. And she doesn’t even know it. She won’t know it, either, not until I reveal myself to her.
That moment is coming soon. I will be ready.
“Sweet dreams, little bird,” I murmur and leave her to her dreams.
6
Inara
In my dream, someone is standing over me. A figure shrouded in darkness. I strain but can’t see who it is.
But then he speaks. Little bird. . . His voice is dark and lovely and tinged with amusement. I want to reach for him, but I can’t; I can’t. . . he’s tied me down. I’ll use rope. I struggle to make sure I can’t get free. I need to know that I’m tightly bound, that he won’t let me go. And once I know the ropes won’t budge, I relax so completely I could cry.
He’s here. I’m safe.
And he’s touching me. Oh gods, he’s touching me, his fingers strong and sure as they blaze a path down my skin. Leaving marks I hope last forever.
My body arches upward as my orgasm cracks me in half. I thrash upward, wrenching out of the sheets I’ve tangled myself in. There’s a scent lingering in the air—a woodsy cologne with a bitter, chemical edge.
I’m alone, but my head is groggy. I feel that presence lingering at the edge of the bed as if someone has been here, watching me sleep. Watching over me.
I reach for my gun, but it’s not there. Instead, there’s my sketchbook, open to the last page I filled.
The charcoal image of a man with a strong jaw and smoldering eyes. The subject is in Thinker’s pose, regarding the little bird perched on his fist. The dom from Club Empire sketched as I imagined him.
I find my gun on the countertop in the kitchen with my keys. Definitely not where I left it. But the door is locked with the deadbolt thrown, and the security system is still armed.
Maybe I was sleepwalking? But my limbs feel heavy like I’ve been sleeping hard for a long, long time.
The heaviness in my body lingers as I trek to work. I’m on high alert, studying stranger’s faces, wondering if the sense that someone’s stalking me is real or imagined.
As I head into the station, movement out of the corner of my eye makes me turn. A black town car pulls around the corner, and I wait until it’s out of sight before heading inside.
There’s a padded envelope waiting on my desk. Inside is an SD card in a plastic holder marked “Security footage,” along with the address of the building next door to Martin Shipping.
“Who left this?” I show Burgess the envelope in lieu of greeting him.
He clears his throat and peers at it. “Looks like the footage we wanted from the building next door.”
No shit, Sherlock. “The building manager wouldn’t release it. Threw a bunch of legalese at me.” I spent the better part of my work day trying to untangle my best clue from the red tape, and went home feeling like my investigation had stalled.
Burgess shrugs. “Someone cut it. Don’t look a gift clue in the mouth.”
“Right.” I hold the disk for a moment, feeling a sense of deja vu. For the second time in twelve hours, someone’s delivered exactly what I’ve needed to my desk or front door.
Whatever. A clue is a clue, and we need a break in this case. “Is there a place I can watch this?”
Hours later, I’m still in a dark room back at the station, staring at a screen. The video plays frame by frame, showing the far-off brick wall with the door and fire escape. A few seconds in, a huge shadow glides diagonally across the wall. The dark shape lands in front of the door, blocking it. “There.” I pause the tape.
Behind me, Burgess leans in so close I can smell the stink of cigarettes on his breath. “Where? I don’t see it?”
I replay the clip and stop it right as the dark shape is about to land on the fire escape platform.