Bound by Her Passion Page 13

  “I’ve got this, Rock,” she says. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to your Selina.”

  And with that, Astrid follows them out the door.

  Backing away from the bar I bend at the waist, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to keep from running after my love.

  Chapter 20

  Selina

  “Such a nice night for a walk,” Colton says from beside me.

  He’s holding my hand, and it’s like I’m fourteen. Or how I imagine a fourteen-year-old girl would feel holding hands with a smoking-hot boy she’s crushing on. Living on the streets by that age, I never got the chance to know for sure.

  Right now, I can’t stop smiling, my giddiness fueled by the energy that’s transferring between us and the excitement of receiving attention from such a classically handsome man.

  But I need to remind myself that this stroll has a purpose beyond fresh air, flirting and getting to know Colton better.

  “Will you show me where the last murder happened?” I ask, once we’re a block away from the bar.

  “The actual crime scene?” Dropping my hand to step ahead of me, he kicks a broken piece of glass from my path. “Why would you want to see that?”

  “Is it gruesome?”

  “No.” He takes my hand again. “It’s basically a park bench.”

  “I’m just curious.” But I realize my request came off a bit strange. He’s been happy to talk about his work, possibly thrilled that I’m interested, but I have no explanation for why I’d want to see the crime scene.

  “Never mind.” I stroke his thumb with mine.

  Squeezing my hand in response, he smiles. “If you’re that curious about the bloodsucker…” He stops midsentence. “No, never mind.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got copies of the files at home.” He stops and turns toward me looking sheepish. “I’m sorry. That sounded like a line to get you into my apartment.” He shifts his weight. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”

  “I’d love to see the files.” Excitement stirs inside me. This little stroll could turn out better than my wildest expectations.

  Even if she’s a killer, I need to know more about my Maker. Especially if she’s a killer. I need to find out how I transitioned without the normal ritual. And if the police find her first, they’ll stake her and I lose my chance.

  I need to know everything the police do, both for myself and for Astrid. It’s way better for me if Astrid is the one to capture her. Better for Astrid, too, which is why she agreed to help and is following us, I think… I still haven’t developed the ability to sense when I’m being followed that Gray and even Rock seem to have.

  “Do you live nearby?” I ask Colton.

  He tips back his head. “A few blocks that way. On Evelyn. It’s just a basement studio. Pretty crappy place.”

  “I’m sure it’s lovely.” I smile. “Let’s go.”

  He tries to hide the joy that invades his face. “You sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?” I exaggerate a shoulder shrug. “I mean, a man I barely know invited me into his basement apartment. Nothing dangerous about that. Nothing at all.”

  Taking both my hands, he faces me and his expression turns serious. “All joking aside, Selina. You have absolutely nothing to fear with me, but that said, I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  He really is a Boy Scout.

  “I trust you. Let’s go.” We start walking again. “Besides, if you try anything, I can handle myself.” I hip check him lightly.

  “Oh, you can, can you?” An overhead streetlight captures a flash of white teeth as he smiles. “Remember, I am a cop. We have martial arts training, you know.”

  “Who says I haven’t had martial arts training, too?”

  “Really…” His grin widens, deepening his dimples. “What other secret skills are you hiding?”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  “I can’t wait to find out.”

  The flirty banter stirs desire and happiness inside me as we walk the rest of the way in silence, and the connection between our hands makes me feel like I’ve got a protective shield around me.

  Protective, comforting and sensual.

  Colton stops. “This is me.” We’re in front of a two-and-a-half-story brick house in a densely packed neighborhood.

  “Nice,” I say.

  “I’m in the basement.” He leads me through the gate of a chain-link fence and down the front path, but he turns right before the steps to the porch.

  “My entrance is around back.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “We’ve got to go down the breezeway between the houses. It’s dark, but there’s a motion detector light halfway.”

  “Okay.” With anyone else, I might be alarmed about being led down a dark narrow passage between two houses, but Colton is like a golden retriever or something—athletic and powerful but nonthreatening unless threatened. I am safe with Colton as long as he doesn’t figure out what I am. I’ve never been so certain of anything; plus, he doesn’t realize I can see in the dark.

  We enter the narrow space between the two buildings, and his wide shoulders brush the sides, forcing him to drop my hand. A light comes on almost immediately, and I follow until we’re through a small wooden gate and into a backyard. Another light comes on to reveal old-fashioned metal lawn furniture sitting on a patch of grass and a vegetable garden farther back.

  “My landlord grows his own veggies.” Colton gestures toward the back of the yard, fenced in with simple chain link.

  “Nice.”

  “The landlord has the bottom two floors and there’s another tenant on the top.”

  I nod.

  “I’d like to get out of this basement apartment situation, soon,” he says. “I’m saving for a down payment, but the market…”

  “Tell me about it.” I smile up at him, finding it kind of adorable that he’s obviously embarrassed that he’s not a homeowner, even though he’s still so young and Toronto is one of the least affordable real estate markets in the world. Very few people his age can afford to buy in this city. Not without a trust fund.

  We walk down a few concrete steps, then he unlocks a door and we step inside. He flips a switch and the space fills with warm light, and I pause to take it in as he tosses his keys into a metal bowl near the door. The furnishings are simple and sparse but the apartment is tidy and clean. Near the entrance there’s a small kitchen against one wall, a wooden table with two folding chairs, then a sofa against the wall, facing a TV. Past that sits a bed.

  “Want the grand tour?” he asks, laughing.

  “Sure.”

  He takes my hand again and gestures with the other. “Kitchen, living room, bedroom. Bathroom is through the door in the back on the right. The other door leads to the furnace room, and there’s another set of stairs there that lead up to the landlord’s space.”

  “It’s really cozy.” I squeeze his hand as we step forward.

  “I assume you mean tiny.”

  “No, I mean, cozy.” The wall opposite the bed is lined with trophies and medals. “What are these?” I drag him toward the display.

  “I played a lot of sports in high school.”

  “I can see that.” And with his athletic frame it’s not hard to imagine. Even the way he carries himself and stands shout athlete.

  “What were you like in high school?” he asks. “I’ll bet you were in the drama club.”

  “Nope. Not a drama girl.”

  “Art? Something like that?”

  “Art is more like it, but I didn’t really go to high school.” I pick up a trophy that says Athlete of the Year.

  “Home schooled?” he asks.

  “More like self-schooled, or library schooled, I guess. Self-taught.”

  “Oh.” His brow furrows, but instead of his expression looking critical or pitying, he seems curious. “Your parents didn’t encourage education?”

  I look down. “I never
met my dad. And my mom… She tried, but when I was six she married this…” My words choke me. I’ve never told anyone about my stepfather. Not even Lark.

  Colton leads me toward the sofa and guides me onto it. “Want something to drink? Beer? Tea? Water? Orange juice?” Staring at his closed refrigerator door, he rubs his head as if that will help him remember its contents.

  “Tea sounds nice.” I’ve never actually had tea but it sounds comforting and warm—kind of like Colton.

  Leaving me on the sofa, he fills a bright red kettle with tap water and sets it on the two-burner stove. He grabs two huge white mugs and sets them on the counter, then takes two tea bags out of a box and sets one inside each cup.

  “How long were you living on the streets?” His voice is calm, even, and completely nonjudgmental.

  He doesn’t even turn to look at me directly, just goes about making the tea like we’re discussing the weather. His question presumed a lot, but his presumption was right, and I’m glad that he’s figured out this part of me without having to ask.

  “I was on the streets five, maybe six years I guess, on and off. Maybe longer in total. I guess I’ve never had a truly stable living situation.”

  “Not even now?” He turns toward me, concern in his eyes.

  “I’m good at the moment. Staying with a friend.”

  “One of those men.” Colton leans back against the counter, looking so sexy I almost drool.

  “Yes. With Grayson.”

  “Grayson’s the fancy-looking hipster dude?”

  “Hipster?” I laugh. “Hipster is the last adjective I’d choose to describe Gray.”

  “His sideburns.” Colton shrugs. “I associate facial hair with hipsters, I guess. At least he doesn’t have a beard or handlebar mustache or anything.”

  “Ah, I guess I get the hipster thing, then.” Gray does look out of this time, out of fashion, but at the same time he’s by far the most fashionable, put-together man I’ve ever known.

  “How old were you when you ran away from home?” Colton asks softly, presuming correctly again.

  “A few weeks after I turned fourteen.”

  “That must have been rough.” He puts cookies on a plate, the kettle starts to squeal and he pours boiling water into each of the mugs. “How did you get by?”

  “Washed dishes in small restaurants—ones that would pay me under the table. I cleaned houses, did odd jobs, made enough to buy food and stuff.”

  “And where did you live?”

  “I crashed in a few homeless shelters for a while, but at some point they’d always ask about my parents, and so I’d move on. Lived in a bunch of cheap rooming houses, that kind of thing.”

  “How do you like your tea?” he asks. “Milk?”

  “Sure, if you take it that way.” Not a tea drinker, I have no idea how I take it, but milk sounds nice.

  After pouring a little milk into each mug, he carries them over to the coffee table, balancing a plate of chocolate chip cookies on top of one. He settles on the sofa a few feet away from me.

  One of his arms stretches across the back of the sofa as I reach for my tea. Again, this seems like something out of an old movie—a subtle way to almost put his arm around me.

  Steam rises to warm my face and I take a tiny sip. “Oh, that’s so good.” The warm liquid drifts through me and helps bring me back to the present, away from the cold and dangerous nights of my past.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says softly.

  “Why? The tea is great.”

  “No, sorry you had to go through so much—and all alone from the sounds of it.”

  The tea is the most comforting thing I’ve ever tasted. “I did have one friend…” I stare at the tawny liquid in the mug and the steam rising from it. If I could still cry, I wouldn’t be able to contain my tears right now.

  “Are you still friends?”

  “No.” My voice breaks. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” His hand falls to my shoulder and squeezes.

  I take another soothing sip of the tea.

  “And your mother?”

  “I’m not sure.” I watch the milky tea swirl. “I used to check on her a few times a year, just to make sure my stepfather hadn’t killed her…”

  “She never tried to leave him? Or report him to the police?”

  I shake my head.

  “Sadly, that’s pretty typical. Domestic violence is a complicated thing.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Your stepfather. Did he beat you too? Is that why you ran away?” His voice is so kind, his eyes understanding.

  “No.” I look down. “He didn’t beat me.”

  “Sexual abuse.” His tone is gentle, the words coming out on an exhale, and while part of me hates that he figured out my darkest secret, a much bigger part of me is grateful that someone else finally knows, without my having to confess it.

  “Yes.” The word is a whisper. “Starting when I was eight.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut as memories flash through my mind like I’m back there—the creak of my bedroom door, the sliver of light from the hall, my stepfather’s shuffling steps and the smell of beer on his labored breaths.

  “Are you okay?” Colton asks quietly.

  I nod, coming back to the present but not sure I can talk. The bad memories are scraping out of me like barbed wire, but as much as it hurts, exposing this painful part of my past, showing Colton a piece of me that’s so private and raw, is a release.

  Having shared even that small amount, I feel lighter, like the memories were heavy stones in my head and I’ve finally knocked some free.

  “You didn’t report him?” he asks softly.

  I shake my head. “I didn’t want anyone to discover I was on my own and risk getting sent back to that house.”

  “That does happen,” he concedes, and I’m so glad he doesn’t argue with me on that. “But you more likely would have landed in foster care. He should have been arrested.”

  “I didn’t trust anyone.” I shake my head. “Especially not adults. And I didn’t want to ever have to face him again. Even if it was in court.”

  “That must have been horrible.” Colton shifts on the sofa and I feel the cushions move beneath me. “I can’t even imagine.”

  Staring into my tea, I nod.

  “You know,” Colton says gently. “It’s not too late to press charges, even though you’re an adult. I can help you with that.”

  I shake my head.

  “What about your mother? Is she still with him?”

  My breath catches in my chest in a half sob and he lightly rubs my shoulder. “I haven’t seen my mom since my transition. They moved. I searched on the Internet a bit, but I can’t find them.”

  “Do you want me to look? If you give me their last known address, full names, whatever you have.”

  “Please.” Nodding, I turn toward him, and his expression is so full of kindness, understanding and utter compassion. Warmth floods me. It’s like Colton sees inside me, like we’ve known each other for years. I slide over a few inches and rest my head against his outstretched shoulder.

  I’m not entirely sure I want to know whatever he finds out, but I’d at least like to know that my mother’s still alive. Even if I don’t want to see her, I’d love to hear that she’s safe.

  As I lean against him, Colton’s body’s heat absorbs into mine and I want to move even closer, to press my leg against his, to slide my hand onto his chest. I want him to wrap his arms around me, to kiss me, but that would increase the chances of him discovering my real secret, plus I sense Colton’s reluctant to make a move beyond his arm draped lightly around me.

  I could make the first move, let him know it’s okay to touch me, kiss me, but I can’t forget the main reason I came here.

  “Do you really have the serial killer files here?” I ask. “Or was that just a line to lure me into your lair?”

  “My lair?” Leaning back from me, he lifts his arm off my shoulder. “Selina. You’re safe
here. I would never—”

  “I’m just joking.” I grin, hoping he realizes that I do feel safe—incredibly safe considering I’m with a vampire killer. It was a bad joke to make given our discussion. “But I am serious about the files.”

  His head tips to the side. “Are you sure? There are photos, descriptions of the wounds. Some are pretty graphic.”

  “I can handle it.”

  He gets up, grabs a stack of file folders from a box under the kitchen table and sets them down in front of me.

  “You’re allowed to take files home from the station?” I ask as he returns to get more.

  “Yeah. The rules around vampire case files are different.”

  I flip open the first file. On top is a photograph of a man in a suit slumped over a sofa, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Behind it is another photo, a close-up of fang marks on the man’s neck.

  Colton drops the second set of files on the table and sits down beside me. “That first pile has the cases without the characteristic wound. Nine cases over twenty years. But keeping files for vamp murders wasn’t procedure until recently, so I bet there are tons of bloodsucker killings I don’t have files for.”

  I nod, not wanting to push back at his assumption that vampire killings are common. “Can I see a file where the victim does have the wound?”

  He fishes a file from the other pile. “Here. This one shows it clearly.” He shows me a photo of a young woman’s leg, carved with the same symbol I have at the back of my neck.

  “And all of the victims in that pile have the same mark?” I ask. “Are they all female?”

  “Yup. All young women. All carved. This vampire has a sick fetish.”

  “But none of these have the mark?” I tap the first pile.

  “That’s right. Although for some of the older murders autopsies weren’t done and the crime photos weren’t thorough enough to be sure.”

  Nodding, I open another file in the non–serial-killer pile.

  The photo on top makes my blood freeze. I can’t move, can’t breathe.

  “What’s wrong?” Colton asks.

  It’s Lark. The murderer in this unsolved case is me.

  I can’t stop staring. Can’t even blink as I’m confronted with a photo of my best friend lying in the alley where she died. Where I killed her.