Sawyer couldn’t figure out what his deal was.
He was the supposed “leader” of their consortium, or so Carpenter had noted. But he didn’t seem to be the leader type.
To Sawyer, he seemed too flippant, too erratic, to be a leader. Too moody, too angry, too unpredictable, too... toosomething.
With a deep sigh, Sawyer shut the computer down, locked up the police station, and got himself ready for bed.
He lay in his strange bed, staring at the strange ceiling, listening to the strange silence, trying not to think about Ciaran Brenner.
Or his pale skin, the way water clung to him like diamonds, running rivulets down the lines and valleys of his strong form. His tattoo, how the tentacles seemed to shimmer under the light.
Sawyer hadn’t allowed himself to think of a man in a long time.
He’d closed that part of his life down after one too many failed relationships and a string of empty, unfulfilling one-night stands. He was done putting himself out there, making vain attempts at having his needs met and being disappointed every time.
He’d closed that part of himself off so good and proper, he no longer missed sex.
He’d never missed the company. He preferred his own company over that of others anyway.
But something stirred in him when he thought of Ciaran. Which was, Sawyer understood, probably because Ciaran could only glare and sneer at him. Sawyer could appreciate there was comfort in self-sabotage and heartache; he knew what to expect, and it validated his desire for solitude.
But I wouldn’t mind being wrecked by Ciaran Brenner.
No.
Nope.
Don’t go there.
Sawyer groaned, frustrated at himself, at his overthinking mind, and decided rolling over and trying to sleep was a much better idea.
Instead, he drifted off to visions of Fraser’s back tattoo and what had seemed so familiar about the blue octopus. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t remember where he’d seen something like it...
And when he finally slept, he dreamed of chasing that guy along Macquarie Pier and onto Constitution Dock. His heart was hammering as if he was chasing him all over again, through the dark night to the ink-black water of the harbour.
Not unlike the dark waters of Tenebrae Cove.
Not unlike it at all.
Only, in his dream, Constitution Dock became the jetty in Tenebrae, and the man he was chasing was Ciaran. And Fraser.Both of them running, wearing only board shorts, and Fraser’s tattoo...
The blue octopus, its tentacles writhing up to Fraser’s neck—and then the octopus tattoo opened its eyes.
Familiar eyes. Eyes he’d seen only once before.
Then dream-Sawyer was back on Constitution Dock, chasing the guy with the shimmering skin and weird eyes.
Eyes like a goat. Elongated, horizontal slits for pupils that were not human.
The same eyes on Fraser’s back tattoo.
The man’s eyes became Fraser’s tattooed eyes as he morphed into the same being, which made no sense, but that was the peculiar logic of dreams.
And then Fraser’s tattoo blinked at him.
Sawyer sat bolt upright in bed, wide awake, heart thumping painfully, and he was panting. He felt cold all over, clammy and sweating, icy realisation crawling down his spine and over his skin like a hundred tiny cold spiders.
The eyes had been familiar, all right.
