I exhale slowly.
The dream was good. The sex was even better. And still, regret coils tight in my chest. I am not even blaming Mercer anymore. I am blaming myself and blaming my body and thirsting after a man who should terrify me.
My mind spirals, asking the same questions over and over. If Mercer wanted me dead, why am I still breathing? He has been watching me for years. Studying me. Waiting. Why make me want him before he cuts my throat? Years of psychology should have given me answers, yet the truth sits right in front of my face, and I hate it.
I hate that part of me that doesn’t want to know.
And I hate that I came here looking for those answers anyway.
“Emily Beckett, you are fucked,” I whisper to myself. “Slut who got fucked.”
An old man sitting at the table across from me turns slowly, eyes narrowed in judgment. He crosses himself and turns back around. I force an awkward smile and a small wave.
When he looks away, I release another breath. I lift my coffee from the table and bring it to my lips. The warmth barely registers.
My pocket buzzes.
With the cup still in my hand, I pull out my phone.
Detective Mara Collins is calling.
“Hello,” I say, pressing the green button.
“Zayne Mercer escaped,” she says.
Everything stops.
The café drains of color. Black and white replace everything. Sound dulls, voices smothered into silence. It feels like stepping into a horror film, the camera zooming in tight on my face for the shock.
“Shit,” is all I manage.
I leave money on the table and push up from the chair, moving fast toward the exit. The old man watches me again as I pass.
He escaped.
Zayne Mercer escaped.
The words pound through my head as I cross the street, moving toward the Institute. Each step feels unreal, like the ground might drop out from under me at any second.
And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the panic, something colder stirs.
I am a dead woman walking.I thought to myself.He is coming for me. He is going to kill me.
I rush up the stairs towards the entrance door and push inside. Nurses swarm around me, moving their mouths, their handsreaching me, but their voices are completely muted. Sound drops away, like I have been shoved underwater.
I refuse to believe he escaped.
I turn left, toward the cells. The place is chaotic. Bodies rush past each other, shoes squealing against the floor, radios crackling. They move like frightened animals, scrambling to recapture the Beast that slipped from the cage. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. My breath comes short and sharp from running.
I reach the door.
Through the small square window, he lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Relief hits first. Fear follows right behind. My fingers tighten against the doorframe.
Am I really seeing him, or is my mind filling the space with what it expects to find?
A guard steps up beside me. Before I can speak, I point at the window.
