The scripted words tattooed over the scar reads: One must cultivate one’s own garden.

“It’s Voltaire,” she says, the soft cadence of her voice spilling into my head. “But you know that, I’m sure. It reminds me to stay in the present.”

I know the line quoted from Candide —and I also know what that line means to her, and why it was imperative for her to brand it on her skin. To recite the mantra to herself every day.

Her dread is so tangible it scorches the back of my throat.

“If there was ever a philosopher to imprint on your body,” I say, lightly tracing my fingers above the raised words inked into the scar, “this would be my choice for you.”

Something daring flashes beneath her gaze, and I swear if she continues to look at me with those large pixie eyes, with the goddamn hypnotic rhythm of her pulse enticing me, I won’t be responsible for the carnage I commit.

I move my thumb from under her chin and sweep the pad along her jaw, savoring this moment.

“Last night,” she says, “when you said what you did…” She swallows. “Don’t mock my pain, Kallum.”

With my free hand, I lower her sleeve, letting her shelter this part of her grief, but I flip her necklace out of hiding from beneath her shirt. Then I trail my finger over the concealed bite mark on her shoulder. “Don’t hide your pain from me, and I’ll never shame you into hiding it.”

Raw vulnerability leaks into her features. She rests her hand against my chest to regain balance. “You derive pleasure from my pain.”

It’s as much a question as it is an accusation.

A dangerous smile slants my face. As I tighten my hold on her once again, I lower my mouth next to her ear. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, doctor.” I pull back and drag in a searing lungful of her scent before I push in close to her lips to taste her broken breaths. “The very, very bad things I want to do to you…we’d both derive pleasure.”

A shiver rocks her body and she licks her lips. The demanding urge to pin her to the mattress threatens to annihilate my feeble control.

Sensing the danger, she traps my gaze. “I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

I release a tense breath. “There has never been any act between us, little Halen. That is real. Everything between us…nothing has ever been more real.”

The visceral lure of her gravity ensnares me, her pull too powerful. If she demands more, I’ll open a fucking vein and let every truth bleed out—but she’s still wary enough to know when she’s teetering too close to the hazardous edge.

Fear crests above the depths of her silvery gaze and, dropping her hand, she removes her touch. I feel the force of the severed connection all the way down to my roiling marrow.

With a guttural curse, I tamp down the clawing hunger and release her. Taking a forceful step back, I button my shirt closed. The darkness of the room presses in.

“Less than forty-eight hours,” I say, reminding her of our limited time.

She lowers herself to the bed and pulls her legs beneath her, offering me a tantalizing view of her panties to further wreak havoc on my pulse. I can still taste her from last night. That flimsy barrier dares me to tear through the material and claim what’s mine.

I’ve all but scratched away her surface. Only a sheer veil remains.

She touches her neck, her thoughts pulled inward, before she grabs the phone and taps the screen. As if flipping a switch, she slides into her comfortable persona where she believes her erected walls protect her from me. Then she aims the screen in my direction.

“An analyst in my department pointed out a shape in the reeds,” she says, offering me the information I accused her of withholding. “A circle.”

And like that, she slips through my fingers all over again.

Leashing my frustration, I give my attention to the image. It was photographed from an aerial view. The circle is clearly defined where the reeds have been broken to mark the ground.

Halen toggles to another screen, her demeanor growing impatient. “Alister’s team posted an update confirming it’s a ritual circle, carved in the earth by an unspecified object.”

“A thyrsus,” I say, giving her the specified answer. “The staff associated with Dionysus and his followers. It was used during ceremonies and rituals. So safe to assume your suspect made use of it, too.”

She closes the tab on her phone and sets the device aside. “Could it have been used to string the eyes to the trees that high up?”

She’s still reaching for logical explanations, a way to piece together the inexplicable and bizarre. Because that is what she used to do, who she used to be, before the solid earth beneath her feet crumbled.

“Halen, anything is possible.” I smirk, recalling her claim during the trial. “Didn’t you once state that?”

Her gaze darts away, a fragile awareness creased in her stressed features. She tucks the white forelock behind her ear and throws her legs over the side of the bed. “Then there’s nothing left at the crime scene to connect.”

I roll my sleeves up my forearms, my body still tense and flesh overheated. Caging my obsessive thoughts, I attempt to lure the spider with enticing prey.

“His narrative,” I say, and she looks at me with a furrowed brow. “Connecting his story, that elusive motive. Isn’t that what you look for in the scenes?”

Her gaze tapers warily. “I think I’ve already uncovered enough of his motive,” she says, and I don’t miss the double entendre directed at me.

I spin my thumb ring a few times. “An unhinged mind doesn’t think linearly,” I say. “He’s moving through the stages by his own design. He’ll be feasting soon.”

Escaping my reach, she snatches the phone off the sheets and stands near the foot of the bed. “The locals know their suspect better than anyone else can.” She scans through her messages, then grabs a pair of jeans out of her open suitcase. “Maybe it’s time to follow their lead.”

“Where are you going?” I demand.

She opens the adjoining door, the broken chain knocks against the wood. “I’m going to help with the search.” She points through the doorway. “And you’re going to your own room.”

In less than two days, I’ll be back at Briar. And she’ll be out of my reach.

I reseat myself in the chair, earning an exasperated breath from her. “Kallum—”

“He stared into the abyss,” I say, the gravel in my voice reflecting my shortening fuse. “The narrative stems from the ritual ground. That’s where we’re going.”

“Then go.” She hastily runs her fingers through her hair. “Because if you have some information you’re not sharing with me…either say it, or otherwise I’m going to help Devyn. I owe her.”

A rush of heated fury zips through my veins. My jaw tightens as I watch her slip her legs into her jeans. She needs to be corrected about who she thinks she owes.

My gaze lingers on her sexy ass as she buttons her pants, and I drag in a searing breath to curb my impatience. “He looked into the abyss,” I say. “He stared death in the eye. Realizing this is all for nothing, that anything we do is pointless because it all ends.”

She turns to face me. “Everyone realizes that at some point,” she counters. “Not enough of a reason to justify a dissociation of this grandeur.”

“But do they really?” I force eye contact with her. “We all have a vague recollection of our end. But how many of us truly face our mortality on a candid level where, once we know—once it infects our entire state of being—we cannot simply return to life as we once were.”

She seems to take my words further inward, and the sudden worry of her slipping too far out of reach stalls my breath. “How does it end for Zarathustra?” I ask, shifting her thoughts.

“It doesn’t,” she says, reasoning. “At least, it doesn’t end in a literal sense. He overcomes his final sin. Compassion…pity. Then there was a lion and a lot of the author’s vanity leaking into the prose.”