He whom love touches not walks in darkness.

Daringly, I free my hands and devour the distance between us to capture her wrists. Her gaze lowers to the inked sigils on my fingers as my thumb purposely strokes her skin. The staccato beat of her pulse accelerates under my touch.

“I’m the man who’s been waiting for you,” I confess, the raw honesty flayed from my dingy soul.

She momentarily forgets about her questions and the bastard bleeding out on the floor as her gaze connects with mine, a heated swirl of curiosity and fear and recognition all banked behind those alarmingly expressive eyes.

I tilt my head and nod down to Wellington. “What happened with him?”

She blinks. “He’s a killer.”

Those three words punctuate the atmosphere with damning conviction. The silence of the hall insulates us, fueling the burning ache in my chest as I study the unearthly woman in my grasp.

Her intoxicating fragrance of lily of the valley and ylang-ylang infuses the enclosed space, damn near drugging me. “How do you know that.”

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, my suit jacket swallowing her. And goddamn, that’s such a tempting thought. How I could swallow her down my gullet this instant.

She shakes her head tentatively. “I don’t know. I lost something,” she says on a shaky breath.

The powerlessness I feel watching her descend further into a state of shock spears my rib cage. The fear of losing her is tangible—a loss so debilitating, it reaches sharp claws down my throat to scrape at my insides.

Delicately, I tow the band down the length of her hair, bringing her dark layers over her shoulders. The air between us crackles as my gaze travels to the base of her throat where a teardrop diamond rests. My movements slow and cautious, still securing her wrist in one hand, I lift the pendant with the finger of my other.

“Maybe you wanted it to be lost,” I say.

For three solid heartbeats, she doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Her gaze fuses to mine, a lifetime and even perhaps a hundred lifetimes held in the pools of her stormy irises.

My breath lodges in my throat as I release the necklace and turn my bloodstained palm up to her, an appeal issued in the dark encasing us.

Her gaze drops to my hand before meeting my eyes. “I don’t know you⁠—”

“You do.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can trust that I’ve never been more selfless than I am right now,” I say. “Trust my intent. I want to protect you.”

She stares at my palm, her features softening as her hesitancy falls away.

Then she takes my hand.

Satisfaction flares in my veins. My long fingers entwine around her slender ones, and I know in the hollow space beneath bone and cartilage I will never be able to let her go.

Wellington stirs on the floor. “Fuck…mother fucking hell.”

The disruption initiates the next sequence of events.

She releases my hand as Wellington rolls over, one side of his face caked in layers of blood. He rubs his bruised eyes before his bleary gaze darts up to her.

“You fucking cunt,” he seethes around a wet croak. Movements clumsy, he digs out his phone from the inseam of his tweed blazer. “My lawyer is going to sue⁠—”

I kick the phone from his hand. Crush it under my combat boot.

The reverberating crack of the screen beneath my heel shatters more than his device.

Our state in this moment is unstable, fragile and volatile, and her eyes are on me, a fire ignited behind her caution and fear. I want to fan the flames, to see the world burn to cinder with her.

Make it our own.

Wellington touches his temple with a hiss. He looks at the bright-red blood on his fingers, then his smashed phone. “You’re the goddamn devil, Locke. You’re finished,” he threatens as he heaves himself up onto his side. “Your career is scorched earth.”

My nostrils flare, and I breathe in the scent of blood lingering beneath the faint honeysuckle.

From my periphery, I see her lower and take the lug wrench in her hand. She holds it out toward him in warning. “Just…don’t move. I need to think.”

Momentarily halted, Wellington glares up at her. “You’re fucking insane. You both are.” His obnoxious chuckle echos against the wood surfaces of the hall, a sick, menacing sound that triggers a dark rage.

I’m a bystander on the edge of this production. The stage is so beautifully set, the script poetry waiting to unfold.

All we need is a catalyst.

And Percy Wellington is nothing if not giving of his efforts.

He spits a trail of blood at the floor. “Seeing how my face bears the proof of your assault, even your pretty little head is quick enough to figure out how this will end, sweetheart.”

As if the endearment triggers her, she tightens her hold on the weapon, her chest rising and falling with quick inhalations as she disappears somewhere within herself. “He’s right.”

The resulting pain that blazes to life within her almost knocks me to the floor. Her state of shock offered her a reprieve, but now, like a dam cracking, that heartache comes flooding back.

I’m hit with the intensity of her anguish so hard, I suffocate under the resounding swell of it.

“He’s right,” she says again, a distant look glazing her eyes.

Wellington struggles to crawl an inch forward. Disoriented, he slaps at the wood floor, pulling his body toward the exit of his lecture hall.

She pushes my suit jacket off her shoulders, tows the strap over her head and sets the bag aside, then grips the tire iron with both hands, her movements methodical. “He’ll get away with everything,” she says, a gentle whisper beneath her rising fury. “Because of me, he’ll walk.”

“Don’t let him.”

Our eyes clash, a charged current dangerously strong snaps between us. If she wielded that weapon against me, I’d welcome her lovely death. I’m almost envious of that undeserving bastard.

She angles toward the broken man slithering along the floor and the drums surge. The beat pounds harder, faster, and I can feel the fire, hot flames licking my flesh as she takes one determined step after another in his direction. Adrenaline scorches the chambers of my heart when she blocks his path.

A change has overtaken her, and I’m not the only one who witnesses the transformation. Wellington’s smug expression falls. Real fear blanches his skin as he holds up a hand in useless protest.

“I can’t let the killer get away,” she whispers.

Darkness has many names, takes many forms. In this moment, she gives it vengeance.

The weapon arcs downward.

His disembodied cry is soon silenced as the sharp end of the tire iron clips his jaw. Beautiful eyes flared wide, mouth parted, she flips the weapon around and brings the bulk of the thick wrench down on his face.

My heart drums to the climbing rhythm. I feel the next strike as much as hear it, the wet smack that rends the air, and the sickening crunch that follows.

Three perfect strikes to deliver his death.

The display is brutal, and passionate, and horrifying.

For a few prolonged seconds, she revels in the delivery of her pain. Taking life, stealing catharsis. She unleashes a punishment to the fucking universe for the loss I still feel bleeding from her soul.

Blood is splashed across her face and clothes, her fury a work of art. Savage lust fires through my blood, blistering my arteries. Her violence is intoxicating. Every visceral emotion harnessed within her, I feel inside me, damn near overloading my senses. Pure adrenaline ravishes my veins until I’m vibrating with an electric current, a monster brought to life.

Silence rings in the air at a deafening octave as chaos bathes the aftermath.

I’ve stepped closer to her. She’s shaking, muscles trembling from adrenaline and exertion. I wrap my hand around hers and take the weapon.

We stare down at the body, the carnage. Wellington’s jaw has been dislodged, the lower half of his face torn off. Blood pools black on the lacquered floor. She doesn’t turn away.