Page 90 of X Marks the Stalker
“Great. No pressure.”
“I have a plan.”
“Even after I recognized Calloway?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of your plan.”
A wry smile crosses his face. “None of this is part of my plan. Especially not you complimenting his work.”
“Jealous?” I test, stepping closer.
“Concerned,” he corrects, though the tightness around his eyes suggests otherwise. “Though I’d appreciate it if youdidn’t fan his artistic ego. It’s already the size of a small planet.”
The intensity in his eyes makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Three attractive, dangerous men in one room, and it’s this one—with his awkward honesty and unexpected vulnerability—who affects me most.
I touch his face, feeling the slight stubble against my palm. “I only have eyes for one killer in this room.”
“God help you if you didn’t,” he murmurs, leaning into my touch.
I’m standing in a safe house after narrowly avoiding execution by a secret society of vigilante killers, confessing feelings for a man I’d watched commit murder. A man whose cameras I’d found in my apartment weeks ago. A man who’d been stalking me long before I knew his name.
And yet, despite all logic and reason, I can’t deny what’s happening between us.
“Were you willing to die for me back there?”
He pauses, not meeting my eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.” His voice catches on the word, as if surprised by his own admission. “Mine to watch, mine to protect...” He swallows hard. “Mine to fuck, mine to love.”
The simple possessiveness in his voice makes my chest tighten. “Love?”
“Yes.”
“I should be terrified of you,” I whisper, my thumb tracing the outline of his lower lip. “I should be running as far away as possible.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because I’m falling for you,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can reconsider them. “God help me, but I am.”
His breath catches, pupils dilating as he processes my words. For a moment, he looks almost afraid, as if my confession is more dangerous than anything else we’ve faced tonight.
Then his control breaks. His hands frame my face, pulling me to him with desperate need. Our mouths collide in a kiss that’s all hunger and heat and barely restrained violence.
I grip his shirt, holding him against me as if someone might try to tear him away. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste the faint remnants of coffee and lust.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, our shared breath creating an intimacy that feels more dangerous than the kiss itself.
“We’re both insane,” I whisper against his lips.
“Clinically speaking, probably,” he agrees, the hint of a smile in his voice. “Though I prefer to think of it as uniquely compatible forms of damage.”
I laugh, the sound strange in the tense atmosphere. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
His hands slip to my waist, keeping me close, as if afraid I might still run. “What would you call it?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just know I’ve never felt this...seen. Even with all your watching, your surveillance—no one has ever seen me the way you do.”
“The real you,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “The one who held that scalpel. The one who didn’t run when she should have.”
