“Hello?” I call out.
No one responds, and I shudder, the chill of the late September air setting into my bones. The throbbing in my head intensifies as I make my way through the room, but I shake it off, heading toward the spiral staircase. My neck cranes as I look up, unease filtering through me. The stairs are wooden and I’m sure they haven’t been updated in years, but I step on them anyway, my gloved hand skimming the old handrails as I head toward the top of the tower.
My stomach tenses with every move that I take.
By the time I reach the top, my breaths are coming quick, my heart slamming against my ribcage.
“Hello?” I call again.
This time, my voice echoes off the walls and shoots back down the tower, reminding me that I’m all alone. And very high up.
My fingers tremble as I reach out, pushing open the door.
It’s yanked from the other side, jerking me with it. A breath whooshes from my lungs as the door is slammed shut from the force of my body being pressed against it, my wrists locked behind my back in a tight grip. The muscles in my shoulders burn from the odd angle, and my heart kicks against my chest, fear spiraling through my middle and working its way up my throat.
“Jesus, fuck.”
A deep voice rumbles against my ears and the sound is a balm to my nerves.
“Lincoln, let me go.” I try to turn my head, but Lincoln’s torso presses into me. Heat flares deep in my abdomen.
He leans down, his grip tightening on my wrists until they burn. “Not so brave when you can’t reach your gun, are you, Detective?”
Anger swirls through me, and I twist my hands sharply in a clockwise motion, attempting to break free of his hold—exactly how we were taught to do in the police academy.
But it does nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He chuckles, before letting me go and backing up a space.
I spin around, chest heaving and temper flaring, pissed off that he subdued me so easily. I pull my gun from my holster and aim it at him. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t, but I do anyway.
A grin breaks across my face when I see his eyes widen. “Rookie mistake, leaving me armed.”
He smooths out his shocked expression and walks forward, placing his hands in his pockets, and not stopping until the barrel is pressed into his chest.
I swallow, my heart battering against my ribs.
He leans in. “So do it then, killer.”
My stomach twists and I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, my wrist snaps back, the gun flying from my grip. Shock punches through me, a harsh hold on my waist jostling my body, Lincoln’s broad chest pressing into my back as he presses my weapon against my temple.
His breath coasts across my neck. “I’m getting real fucking tired of you pointing your gun at me.”
I scoff. “It’s not like I’m actually going to shoot you.”
He grunts, his arm squeezing my middle, making my heart skip a beat.
“If I give this back to you, will you calm the hell down?”
I nod, suddenly unable to find my voice, the strands of my hair mussing up against the fabric of his clothes.
He releases me, and I stumble, my eyes narrowing as I straighten back up and meet his gaze. The left side of his mouth lifts, the gun spinning in his hand until it’s hanging lazily off the tip of his finger.
Irritation swirls through my chest, and I march forward, my lips pursing as I grab my weapon and place it back in my side holster. “You don’t have to be so smug about it,” I mutter.
“What are you even doing?” He points a finger at me. “You better not be here to bother Mr. Jensen.”
I tilt my head. “You’re close with him, then?”
His posture stiffens, his jaw locking in place. “I’m done answering your questions, and I won’t let you bother him.”
He stalks away, and I roll my eyes. Town golden boy, my ass.
I follow after him, finally looking around for the first time since coming up here. Avoiding the busted light that sits in the center of the room, I walk to the edge, leaning over the padded bench to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the walls.
My breath stalls in my lungs from the view.
It’s breathtaking.
The daytime has long since disappeared, leaving a landscape of stars; the moon reflecting off the water’s surface, a beautiful backdrop to the waves crashing against the base of the cliff.
“Wow,” I whisper, my hand coming up to rest on my chest.
A snort from behind me pulls my attention away. I spin around. “What?”
Lincoln shakes his head, picking up a notebook from the bench before walking past me. “I’m leaving, and you sure as fuck can’t stay.”
Once again, annoyance scratches at my insides, and I reach out without thinking, grabbing his wrist and pulling. He twists quickly, the notebook flying from his hand and bouncing on the floor, the pages fluttering open.
He leaps forward to grab it, ripping himself free from my grip.
And I’m… frozen.
Because I could swear I just saw a sketch of me in Lincoln Porter’s notebook.
Chapter 11
Sloane stumbles back a step, her electric eyes wide as fucking planets as I scoop my notebook into my arms, slamming it against my chest.
My heart leaps to my throat, pounding like a caged animal as I whisper a silent prayer to a god I haven’t spoken to since I was a kid, hoping she doesn’t ask questions. Hoping she didn’t get a good look, because I know Detective Sloane is the kind of person to read too much into something like this.
To twist it into something dirty as she tries to weasel her way into my psyche, using it for her benefit.
She drags her gaze from the wooden floor up, her stare so sharp it feels like it pierces straight through me. I brace myself for the onslaught of questions, the probing, the request for a mental health evaluation to find a deeper meaning.
“You draw?” she asks, pinching her eyes shut for a moment, visibly forcing herself to relax. But her fists stay curled tight against her thighs—the only tell that she’s seen something she shouldn’t have, and knows it.
I’m sure it’s another tactic she learned at the academy, and the fact that she’s still treating me like a perp rankles the chains shackled around my heart, sending a tingle of annoyance down my spine.
Or maybe it’s a different kind of tingle entirely, and I’m trying to brush it off.
“That’s not really your business, Detective.”
Taking another step back, she cards a hand through her hair, fingers tangling in the strands. “I just wasn’t expecting it, to be honest. Artists are so passionate, and you seem so...”
My eyebrows raise, and I inch forward, bursting her personal bubble one step at a time. She’s cornered, her back against the glass window overlooking the ocean raging below, and her eyes drop to the notebook, avoiding me altogether.
I smirk, stopping when our chests brush with each deep breath we take, as if we lack oxygen at this altitude.
Taking the notebook in my hand, I bring one corner to her chin and push upward, forcing her to meet my gaze; my lungs incinerate on contact, burning up with the effort it takes to maintain her stare.
“What do I seem?” I ask, my voice sounding like it’s been raked over hot coals.
“I-I don’t...” She swallows, her pink tongue swiping across her bottom lip, making my cock stir to life.
Clenching my jaw, I move into her more, noting the soft, breathy sound that escapes her as I reach up and twist the ends of her hair around my free hand.
“I can assure you, killer, I have no shortage of passion.” I’m so fucking close, I can see the erratic thump of her pulse at the base of her neck. My eyes glue to the beat, watching as it flickers against her creamy skin, my mouth practically salivating to seal over it. “There are just very few people who can handle it.”
Her throat bobs, mouth parting on a silent b
reath.
“You see,” I say, dropping the notebook to my side and releasing her hair, trailing my fingers gently over her collarbone.
Even though I’m not holding her up anymore, she keeps her gaze on mine, those bright blue eyes unflinching.
“Artists are passionate, yes, but they’re also intense. Once they’ve set their minds on something, it’s almost impossible for them to give up until it’s perfected, and that’s not a standard many like to hold themselves to.”
Heat ebbs in fierce waves between us, flames igniting where I drag the pads of my fingers along the cotton material of her shirt.
I want to wrap my fist in it and tug her against me, to prove how deep my passion runs—show her that it’s a soul-deep entity, ripe and vile as it courses through my blood, calling out for her.
Every fucking day since she arrived in town.
“How long have you been drawing?” she whispers, as if afraid to break whatever trance holds us together.
“Since I was a kid,” I say, my lips moving separate from the rest of my body. “My pops suggested it as a way to deal...”
Sloane tilts her head. “To deal? With what?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“I’m a detective,” she points out.
Her words are like a bucket of ice water, and they spray over me, dousing the fire she’d previously caused. I clear my throat and move back, distancing myself from her with a little shake of my head.
I’m sure she thinks I don’t see her shuffle forward or the way she winds her body up before she pounces; I turn at the same time she launches through the air, sideswiping me as she knocks into the wall.
In an instant, her hand whips out, and she yanks the notebook from my grasp, turning it over to the third pair of eyes I attempted today. None of them were right, though, something missing in their two-dimensional depths that I still can’t put my finger on.
She glares down at the page, silent for several beats, tension threading through every one of my muscles as I wait for a reaction. Part of me expects another little gasp, or even a compliment.
Instead, I get a sneer. “You’re sick, you know that?”
I blink, my head snapping back like she’s reached out and slapped me. “Excuse me?”
“Do you think this is funny?” she seethes, seemingly genuinely perturbed for the first time I’ve known her. “What’d you do, Lincoln? Look me up, find out about The Portland Dresser, and decide you wanted to get back at me by messing with my head?”
“The Portland what? Sloane, I—”
She tosses the notebook back in my direction, and I catch it just as she lunges for the door, her body lithe and catlike as it glides around the busted lamp in the middle of the room.
Still, my legs are almost double the length of hers, and so I throw the book to the bench behind me and reach the door just as she grabs the knob.
Adrenaline carries me too far, and suddenly I’m slamming into Sloane’s back, pushing the door shut. My arms bracket around her like a cage, absorbing the brunt of the force when we collide with the solid surface, and then neither of us makes a sudden move.
I’m not even sure if we’re breathing.
Struggling, she shimmies her hips, seemingly unaware of the way it makes her peach-shaped ass dig into my groin. Unaware of my dick’s reaction to it.
“Jesus, fuck. What is happening right now?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” She grits out, shoving back and making me wince. My arms tighten around her, and I try not to focus on the way her tits are pressed obscenely against me. “What kind of guy hangs out at abandoned, haunted lighthouses drawing the face of a woman he claims he can’t stand?”
A laugh rumbles in my throat. “Someone’s full of themselves. Why the hell would I be sketching you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re trying to work through your disdain?”
“If that’s the case, why would you be so freaked out? I thought you wanted me to be more cooperative.”
She shakes her head, flexing her fingers, and I pull back just enough to rake my gaze over her backside, admiring the way she’s silhouetted in the overhead lighting, a splotch of sunshine against the black sky beyond.
It’s only when I loosen my grip on her that I notice the trembling. A knot lodges in my throat, burning my esophagus, and I slowly disentangle myself from her, keeping one palm against the top of her spine in case she needs the support.
I’m not sure why she’s so disturbed, but I can practically feel the fear bleeding off of her, and it causes a flash of something red hot to flare in my chest.
Whatever happened to her before—information Gabe conveniently left out when I asked for a rundown on her—clearly affected her, and part of me feels a little guilty now for triggering her.
Even though I don’t know what I did, considering the drawings aren’t of her.
Sucking in a deep breath, Sloane slowly spins around, plastering herself to the door as she blinks up at me. My chest aches as those eyes meet mine, anger mixing with desire as I get lost in the cerulean shades.
It takes a moment for her to refocus; she blinks rapidly as if shaking dust from her lashes, and then clears her throat, straightening her spine and tipping her chin up. One hand rests on her gun, the other on her thigh—it’s only there that I see the trembling hasn’t completely subsided.
But I pretend I don’t notice.
“They aren’t of you,” I say in a low voice, bringing my thumb up to swipe across my bottom lip. She tracks the movement, pupils dilating. “Not intentionally, anyway. If I draw inspiration subconsciously from real life, there’s nothing I can do about that.”
She nods, seeming to accept that answer. “Who are they of, then?”
My jaw tics. “Just... someone I used to know.”
“Like Mr. Jensen?”
“Am I spending my minimal free time sketching an old man? No.” I frown, stepping back and folding my arms over my chest, my defenses slotting into place. “What’s your interest in him, anyway?”
“Same as my interest in you, Mr. Porter.” As my walls reforge themselves, so do hers, restoring our original dynamic as if I didn’t just witness a very personal moment for her.
I smirk, letting my gaze dip down to her shoes before slowly dragging it back up. Heat burns behind my lids, desire spreading like a power surge through me.
“You want to fuck the lightkeeper, too?”
Sloane scoffs, though her face flushes anyway. “Someone’s full of themselves.”
My smirk widens into a full-fledged grin. “Bet you’d like to be full of me too, eh, killer?”
With that, I turn on my heel and head over to the opposite side of the lightroom, picking my notebook back up and tucking it beneath my arm. She slides to the right, allowing me to wrench open the door, even though my entire body is screaming with the effort it takes to distance myself.
But that’s why I have to—I certainly can’t afford to let lust cloud my judgment.
“Where are you going?” she asks, her voice carrying as she follows me into the damp stairwell. “I came here to investigate. I can’t very well just leave.”
“Well, you can’t stay in an inoperable lighthouse by yourself, either,” I call over my shoulder, heading for the stairs. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Because I’m a woman? God, you’re so—”
“Because you know fuck all about lighthouses,” I snap, pausing abruptly with one foot on the top step.
She crashes into my back, her hands darting to my hips, squeezing as she tries to maintain her balance. Her floral scent assaults me, and I grit my teeth against the onslaught.
I let her right herself, the way she scrapes her nails over my black flannel sending a wave of goose bumps along my skin, and she lets out a little breath, glancing past me.
Like she’s looking for ghosts.
For some reason, that irks me more than anything else, and I’m grappling with my final shred of sanity w
hen she speaks again.
“You have a foul mouth,” she says, starting around me.
I drop the notebook once again, the pages fluttering open as it collapses against the dirty floor, and my hand lashes out, wrapping around her delicate wrist in the next second.
The last vestiges of my control snap, and I yank her into me, spinning so her chest is flush with mine, my free hand capturing her chin between two fingers. She’s so small, so fucking fragile, that I’m afraid she might break if I hold too tight.
But the way she meets my stare, eyes hard and swirling with liquid heat, I think she must know better.
“Why do you continually push my fucking buttons if you don’t like it?”
Her eyes flicker to my mouth, tongue peeking out between her lips, and then she looks back up. She’s practically smoldering, her body temperature seeming to skyrocket from my touch alone, and suddenly it feels like I can’t breathe.
“Who said I don’t like it?” she rasps, one of her hands reaching up to cup my jaw, her thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. Tilting her head, she grins. “I just wonder if you’re capable of using it for anything else.”
Silence pops in the air between us, our breaths mingling, chests rising and falling rapidly. My heart beats so loud and fast that I can feel it in my throat, and I loop one arm around Sloane’s waist, tugging her until she’s fitted so tight against me, I can’t tell where her body ends and mine begins.
So, instead of trying to figure it out, I bend down and seal my lips to hers, altering the course of fate with that single, gravity-defying, earth-shattering action.
Chapter 12
I’m frozen in place as his lips meet mine, but only for a second, and then I react, giving in to whatever this thing is that sits between us, always stretching the air thin and making me feel like I’m suffocating.
Maybe if I steal his breath, I’ll finally be able to exhale.
His tongue slips between my lips, and my mouth parts, his taste sending a spike of arousal shooting through my middle. A moan escapes before I can drag it back in, but he responds by pushing into me, my back meeting the cool metal of the lightroom door.
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