I don’t know why London felt the need to spy on me. Maybe she gets off on interfering with her patients’—or prospective patients’—lives. Or maybe she’s simply a pawn in a deranged trap orchestrated by her patient. Maybe we’re all being manipulated.

Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t change what we have to do—what I have to do.

I feel the warmth of Alex’s touch as he takes my hand in his. “You’re coming home with me.”

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35

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LOVESICK

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ALEX

When a serial killer threatens to eviscerate you and feed your entrails to his pet fish, you start to evaluate your life choices.

By examining at a microscopic level, I can trace every decision and path taken, and the intersecting events, that create the perfect formula.

It’s when I back out enough to examine the picture as a whole that chaos theory comes into play—the irregularities within my system that couldn’t be foreseen. As always, the system’s destination is decided very delicately by its starting point.

Had Blakely never contacted Dr. Noble, then it’s likely Grayson wouldn’t know I exist.

Had I never entered that night club, I never would’ve found Blakely.

Had I been less selective and chosen a subject sooner out of my typical selection pool, I never would’ve been tempted to enter the club in the first place.

I can keep tracing the path backward, noting each incident that brought us to this point, but there’s a lesson in chaos: Chaos theory proposes a paradox, as it connects two familiar notions that are viewed as incompatible.

By any rational observation, Blakely and I are an incompatible notion.

And yet, she tore through my systematic world to obliterate me wholly.

She is the paradox.

Like the swing of a pendulum, her velocity and force is what I measure every need and aspiration by, and if I can only have her rage and hatred, then that is how I’ll accept her. Having a piece of her is more consuming than any shallow connection.

Because I know we haven’t yet reached our ending destination.

Like all systems, time is the variable that facilitates change.

And that anticipated change is a tense warning in the air around us. Having her in my space feels threatening, like at any moment she can shred the fabric of my feebly constructed world to decimate me.

Tonight proved she holds the power to do just that.

With her unstable emotions, she’s a liability to more than just me; she’s a liability to herself.

Instead of my selfish endeavor to repair my ego, I should’ve been engineering a compound to help regulate her neurotransmitters until her brain chemistry equalizes.

Since I have no ability to reverse time, I can only start from where we are now.

“You’re sleeping in my bed,” I tell her, as I clear the clutter off my desk.

Since Grayson is apprised to the location of both our places, it seemed only logical to utilize my previous unit. I have no doubt Grayson is aware of this residence also, but it’s marginally safer, equipped with an alarm system and less entry points.

Blakely limps toward the closet and removes a fleece blanket, then tosses it on the beige sofa. “I’ll sleep here.”

A fiery thread curls beneath my skin. I rub the back of my neck to ease sore muscles and my growing irritation. We’re practically war battered from fighting and fucking—maybe more so from the fucking—and still she refuses to admit the truth of us.

Her animated neural pathways have not affected her stubbornness.

Her hair is one wild tangle. She’s still wearing my shirt. I have her scent embedded in my skin. The primal urge to bend her over my sofa and make her come until she admits her feelings rocks through me with crazed need.

I abandon the desk and storm toward her, every bruise and injury on my body rebelling against the movement. I reach her before she’s able to mount a defense and scoop her into my arms.

“Let me go—”

“We’ve already established that’s not happening.” I carry her into my bedroom and drop her on the bed.

She grunts from the impact as she rises up on her elbows to send me a lethal glare. “I’m not your captive anymore.”

“Would be safer for you if you were.” I haven’t completely ruled out locking Blakely up until the matter is handled. She wouldn’t despise me more than she already does.

Although the loathing in her drained eyes states otherwise.

“Sleep on the floor,” she says.

When she gives in to her weariness and lies back on the pillow, I remove her boots and toss them beside the bed. Then I yank the covers down from beneath her and gently draw them up over her body.

As I tuck the blanket around her shoulders, she watches me closely, a curious draw to her shadowed features.

I’ve touched every inch of her body. I’ve worshiped her, memorized her. I’ve reveled in the feel of her as she came undone in my arms, and yet this delicate moment here is the closest I’ve ever been to her.

I can sense her guard lowering. She doesn’t know how to shelter that fragile vulnerability yet, especially when she’s exhausted and emotionally spent.

“There’s nothing to fear.” I chance smoothing the hair away from her forehead, and she lets me. “We’re a force together. Your skills and my—”

“Psychosis?”

I choke off a laugh. “I prefer nefarious genius.” I kneel next to the bed, becoming level with her. “They won’t get near us. They can’t.”

After a weighted beat where I suppress the urgent desire to kiss her, I stand and start to move away. She reaches for my hand. Her fingers are light on my palm, but it’s enough to stop me. I follow the connection up to meet her eyes.

“What did Grayson say to you?”

Stalled, I watch the reflected lights from the street play across the wall. Her vulnerability could be a manipulation tactic, a ploy to lower my defenses. Even so, I have to give in to her. We’ll never reach our aligned destination if one of us doesn’t yield to the other.

I walk to the window on the other side of the bed and close the blinds to shut out the city lights. Then I reach behind my head and tug off my shirt. I drop the ruined fabric to the hardwood before I slip into bed beside her.

I give her what she asks and openly recount my interaction with Grayson, even admitting to where he approached me. She knows I’ve been inside her loft; she’s figured it out by now.

The groove between her eyebrows caves as deep as her thoughts. “I was right. They want us dead.”

I lie facing her, my head propped painfully on my burned and bruised fist. “Logically, yes. Use us to remove any correlation to the victims, then remove all traces of me, the only link to my sister.” Mary is the threat tying Grayson to the chain of events. Although the MO is different, authorities would have no issue drawing a parallel to The Angel of Maine for my crimes.

“And there can’t be any witnesses,” she says, piecing together her own demise as part of the equation.

“Letting either of us live would sabotage the carefully orchestrated vanishing act Grayson performed,” I say. “He won’t allow that to happen.” Also, I believe he fears what such an exposure will uncover about his psychologist’s involvement.

“But there’s another variable I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t consider, one the fiend himself was pleased to point out.” I hedge closer to her, the sheet an annoying obstruction between us. “Brewster.”

She gently shakes her head against the pillow. “I don’t understand.”

“The same software we used to spy on Brewster during the Ericson revenge job, Brewster can use to trace and find you. He may not be that tech savvy himself, but he has enough money and connections to find someone who is.” I rest my hand on her arm, gliding my thumb under the shirt cuff to ground a connection. “Brewster is a danger to you.”