“You were worth the risk,” I say against his mouth, giving him the answer to his question. “You were worth risking my heart.”
Then, wrenching myself away, I rush from the sub-level, forbidding myself another glance back.
On my way out of the facility, I grab my stashed burner phone, making a snap decision as I eye Orion’s gear. As I slip on his leather jacket, an ache flares beneath my breastbone as his familiar scent envelops me. I snatch his keys and force myself toward the arched doors.
The campus is dark and silent, shrouded in predawn mist. Only the gargoyles and stone statues bear witness to my escape as I make my way across the wet pavement.
As I seat myself on Orion’s motorcycle, a twinge of longing surfaces, and I try to suppress the phantom feel of him between my thighs, the comforting strength of his arms around me as waves crashed and roared.
Fingers trembling from the cold, I place the call.
Laurel picks up. “Did you find him?”
I draw in a steadying breath, committing to memory the mist and salty scent of ocean and his warm, rich notes. “I found what I needed.”
“Good girl,” my mentor says.
Orion taught me one other thing about patterns, about how to recognize the more elusive ones. Something I wouldn’t have been able to connect without him; this vital piece that I need to hunt my killer. For that, and for so much more, I’m forever indebted to him.
However little time that forever may be.
A foggy breath shudders out, and I press my hand to my chest. I tap his count against my bone, grounding my pulse to his soothing rhythm to stabilize my heartbeat, breathing in box counts of four.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” An edge of concern threads Laurel’s voice.
You’re not supposed to get too close to your mark. You’re not supposed to fall in love with them.
“Nothing,” I assure her. “I’m fine. Just ready for this to finally be done.”
Her tone softens. “I know.” A weighted pause. “Did you clean up the loose end?”
“Yes.”
It’s the first lie I’ve ever told her.
I was also never supposed to leave Orion alive.
But he and I—we’re the same species of hunter. We feed on the same toxins.
“Where did you stash the emergency bag?” I ask her as I key the ignition.
“At the Shorehaven port. Locker thirteen.”
A bitter, breathless laugh escapes before I silence the sound. “Of course.” My throat constricts around a knot. “Headed there now. And…thank you, Laurel. For getting the report for me, and finding the discrepancy in the imaging record.”
There’s a heavy pause before she says, “You did him a mercy, Hollyn.”
I swallow the fiery ache. “I know.”
“Just be safe,” she says gently.
With a rigid nod she can’t see, I end the call.
It was Dr. Laurel Montgomery who pulled the canvas away on that late winter evening as I floated dead for over three minutes under forest branches, who breathed new air into my lungs and gave me new life—helping Hollyn Cawthorn remain dead, so my killer wouldn’t see me coming.
She saved me in more ways than one.
By bringing me into the fold. Offering shelter, a home. A purpose, after mine was stolen. A professional ballet dancer whose bright future fractured as violently as her heart—a heart unable ever again to sustain the rigorous demands of a dancer’s life.
