by Cynthia Eden
The bastard’s MO was carved into Asher’s brain and he sucked in a deep gulp of air as his gaze stayed fixated on that tattoo.
He took his victims. Twenty-four hours later, the authorities would get a picture.
The picture would always be of the victim’s upper body and face. Her naked shoulder. Her new tattoo.
Each image fired off a massive manhunt, but despite the desperate searches, those victims hadn’t been found. None of them . . . until Bailey.
And then everyone realized what had happened to the others. Buried in graves, tossed away in the mountains. Turned into angels by the man who’d taken them.
His hand reached out toward her. He was almost touching that tattoo but . . .
Asher stopped. Instead of his fingers skimming over her skin, his head bent and he pressed a quick kiss to the tattoo. It wasn’t a mark left by the bastard who’d taken her. He refused to think of it that way. It was a sign of Bailey’s strength.
He slipped out of the bedroom and made sure to close the door as quietly as possible behind him.
As soon as the door shut behind Asher, Bailey’s eyelids opened. She’d been awake when he kissed her shoulder, but she hadn’t moved. Mostly because if she’d moved, then she would’ve needed to talk to him.
He might have asked questions about her tattoo.
Might have talked to her about last night.
Might have said what they’d done had been a mistake.
It wasn’t. Being with Asher was exactly what I needed.
She still needed him.
Bailey pushed away the covers and padded to her bathroom. Still naked, she stared at herself in the mirror. In the harsh light of day, there was no missing the scars on her body. The slash marks that would always be there. Eleven of them. They’d faded a lot in the last six months. Not red and angry any longer, but thin, white raised lines on her flesh.
She turned and peered over her shoulder.
And there . . . darkness. Two wings on her right shoulder, spaced barely an inch apart. She hadn’t even realized the Death Angel had put that tat there—she sure didn’t remember getting it. When she’d woken—tied up in that cabin—her whole body had hurt. The sunburn sting of a new tattoo hadn’t registered on her mind. She’d actually seen it for the first time when she’d been in the hospital. Bailey had made her unsteady way to the bathroom. She’d stared at her sunken eyes and bruised skin in the mirror—horror filling her. Then she’d turned away from her reflection. Her too-big hospital gown had slid down her shoulder. She’d glanced back at the mirror, almost helplessly—
And seen it. The tattoo.
The reporters always asked her about it. Asked if she hated it. Asked if she’d be getting it removed.
They didn’t understand. That tattoo was part of her now. And, unlike the scars . . . I like it. But most people didn’t get that. They couldn’t understand how she looked at the tat and didn’t feel immediate revulsion.
But . . . she did.
Bailey showered and dressed, putting on jeans and a light sweater. She even took the extra time to apply some blush and eye shadow.
I must seriously like this man.
She hadn’t bothered with makeup since . . .
Royce? The day in the hospital when he’d looked at her as if she were a stranger and she’d been frantic to get her old self back again.
Bailey grabbed for her lipstick. A quick swipe over her mouth and she was done. Now if she could just have a conversation with Asher that didn’t involve her stumbling and saying something that was way not Night After casual . . .
Straightening her shoulders, she headed out of the bathroom, out of her bedroom, and down the hallway toward him. As she approached, the scent of chocolate chip muffins teased her nose and had her stomach growling.
When she entered the kitchen, he was there. Hair tousled, eyes gleaming, a line of dark stubble coating his sexy jaw. He wore only a pair of dark sweatpants, the pants that she distinctly remembered shoving off him the night before. He had a plate of muffins waiting on her table and when Asher saw her, a slow smile curved his mouth.
She staggered to a stop, feeling that smile sweep straight through her. That man is lethal. She had never, ever seen anyone look so sexy.
And he’d baked her favorite breakfast ever. She had a serious chocolate weakness.
His smile stretched a bit more. “You had a dozen chocolate chip muffin packages in your pantry,” he murmured, that drawl deep and toe-curling. “So it wasn’t a hard stretch to realize they must be your breakfast of choice.”
Her bare toes had definitely curled into the tiled floor of the kitchen. “I, um, yes. I like them. A lot.” Her gaze dropped to the plate of muffins. “But you didn’t have to bake them for me. That’s not what I expected at all.” Actually, Bailey had no clue what she had expected.
Not him. Never him.
Asher picked up a muffin and strolled toward her. “I like the unexpected.”
Oh, damn.
He lifted the muffin to her lips. “Want a bite?”
She wanted a bite of him. It was as if some switch had been turned on inside of her during the night. She’d avoided sex, avoided all physical contact with men for months, and now her body was in some kind of overdrive.
I want him. Right there. In the kitchen. On the counter. On the table. Beside that plate of muffins.
And it was wrong. A woman was dead. Bailey knew she should be terrified—some jerk was out there copying the Death Angel. But instead of being overwhelmed with fear, she wanted to reach out and grab on to life with both hands.
I want to grab on to him with both hands.
But she didn’t. After all, she had some control. Her lips parted and she took a bite of that muffin. The chocolate chips literally melted in her mouth and a moan slipped from her.
“I love that sound,” Asher said.
Her gaze flew to his.
“Sexy as all hell.” He lowered the muffin. “Especially when you make that moan and I’m in you.”
Her cheeks flamed.
“Can I get a taste, too?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. His mouth took hers and she felt the soft sweep of his tongue over her lower lip. Bailey leaned into him even as her nipples tightened. Just a kiss. Get a grip, woman! A kiss.
He eased back, but didn’t let her go. “Tastes good.”
Wait, did he mean the chocolate or her?
Did he have any idea just how far out of her league all of this was?
“Want another bite?” He offered her the muffin.
She was about to devour him. “Asher . . .”
Her doorbell rang. The loud peal echoed through her house and Asher’s brows shot up. She glanced at the clock on her stove. Barely past eight a.m. On a Sunday. Her stomach twisted. “Do you think it’s Wyatt? That he’s already learned something about the killer?”
Asher curled her fingers around the muffin as he pushed it into her hand. “Stay here. Let me see who it is.”
Then he was gone. She downed the muffin fast, because she was starving. But Bailey didn’t stay in the kitchen. After all, it was her home, her doorbell, her life.
So she rounded the corner to the little foyer just as Asher opened the front door . . .
“Who in the hell are you?” a rough male voice demanded. “And why the fuck aren’t you dressed while you’re standing in my girlfriend’s house?”
Her lips parted in shock. Royce. Royce Donnelley. She hadn’t heard his voice in months, and she was sure not his girlfriend.
Before she could speak, Asher gave a low growl, a sound that made the hair on the nape of her neck stand up, and he braced his legs apart. A quick glance showed her that his hands were loose at his sides, but she had the feeling that he was readying himself for battle. “You’re at the wrong house,” Asher said flatly.
“No, I’m not!” Royce blasted back at him. Then he made the mistake of locking one hand around Asher’s bare shoulder. He shoved Asher back. �
��You are. And you need to get the hell—”
It happened fast. Too fast. Later, she’d wonder about that insane quickness. But right then, she just saw Asher move in a quick blur. One instant Royce was shoving him, and in the next breath of time, Asher had slammed Royce into the nearby wall, face-first. The hand that had made the mistake of grabbing Asher was now held up high behind Royce’s back, and Royce was yelling—
“Stop!” Bailey leapt forward and grabbed Asher’s hand. “I know him. Just stop.” Because she was afraid that Asher would break Royce’s arm.
Asher’s head turned toward her. He didn’t let Royce go. “Who is he?” Flat. Cold. Just like his eyes.
Swallowing, she said, “Royce Donnelley. He’s my—”
“Ex.” Asher let him go. “The prick. Yeah, I read about him in your files. Dumbass bleached his hair blond and lost weight so I didn’t recognize him at first.”
Royce spun around. His blue eyes glittered with fury as he rolled back his shoulder and rubbed his wrist. “I’ve been working out, asshole. Want to try coming at me again and see how that works for you?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Asher muttered.
“Oh, really?” Royce blasted. “How about—”
Bailey stepped between them. “You don’t want to push Asher.” She had no doubt that an ex-SEAL like Asher could kill or maim in an instant. And as for a tax accountant like Royce . . .
Not happening.
And Asher was right. Royce had changed his hair. There were blond highlights running through his thick mane. He still was handsome. Royce had the golden-boy looks down to a T. And since everyone had always told Bailey she was a golden girl . . .
We were together far too long. For no reason. Just because others said we were a good couple. That we were meant to be.
Such utter bull.
And everyone had been wrong. There was nothing golden about her.
Or about him.
“Asher.” Royce spat the name in disgust. “So he’s the new one, huh? Finally defrosted enough to—”
Asher went in for the attack. Bailey whipped around and her hands pressed against his chest. “Asher, don’t.”
“I’m just going to teach the dumbass some lessons,” he said, not looking at her. His furious glare was locked completely on Royce. “Lesson one . . . never, ever say a word about Bailey when I’m near.” He paused for the barest moment. “And even when I’m fucking not.”
Royce made a quick leap for the door. Once he was clear of the threshold, he turned back and made a show of straightening his polo shirt—it was already straight. “I was worried about you, Bailey. You know I have friends at the sheriff’s office. One of those friends called me . . . tipped me off about what was happening and when I heard about that body . . . about the fact that you found her there last night . . .” Royce shuddered. “Like I said, I was worried. I came right over to check on you.”
“She’s fine,” Asher snapped.
Royce’s eyes widened. “If you believe that, you don’t know her at all.”
“I know her better than you’d think.”
This whole scene was like something out of a nightmare. “Have they identified her? Wyatt and his team—do they know who the woman is?”
His lips thinned. “No, not yet. They hadn’t even gotten the medical examiner in yet. Though I don’t know why we need the guy. From what I was told, it’s obvious the killer knifed her, again and again.” His gaze swept over her body. “Just like he did you.”
“It’s not the same killer. It’s not him.” There was no way it could be. The Death Angel was little more than ash.
“Always thought it was too convenient,” Royce said, nodding a bit. “That this guy somehow trapped himself in his own fire and was burned beyond recognition. I mean . . . what if that body wasn’t the Death Angel’s? What if it was just another victim? I told the sheriff he should have thought that, too. People should have listened to me.” His chin notched up.
Her skin felt clammy. “The Death Angel never took male victims.”
“Not that we know about.” Now Royce appeared concerned, his anger fading. “The story never sat well with me. Never. I always thought there was more that happened that night. More you didn’t tell me . . . or your shrink.”
She could feel Asher’s gaze on her. “I told everything.”
“Did you?” Obviously, Royce didn’t seem so sure. “I’ve been talking to a reporter who has a different take on all the Death Angel’s crimes. Richard thinks—”
“Richard Spawn?” Asher demanded, cutting through the other man’s words.
Royce nodded.
“Don’t waste your time with him,” Bailey said carefully. “He’s slime. Just looking for the next big story.”
And with this new murder, he’d have one.
Royce’s eyelashes flickered. “Bailey . . .” His voice dropped. “I’ve thought about you so much over the last few months. I’d turn on the news, and there you’d be.”
Not by choice.
“I made a mistake.” Now he sounded cajoling. It was a voice she recognized—one Royce used when he really wanted to get something. Someone? “I know that now. Nothing was your fault. It was all me.”
Asher gave another one of those low growls.
“You need to leave,” Bailey said. She couldn’t talk to him, not then. Not with Asher right behind her and her own anger growing with every moment that passed.
I wasted too much time with him. But then, she’d always been told that she should be with Royce. That they were perfect together.
A perfect nightmare.
“Promise you’ll talk with me soon. I mean, really talk.” His right hand had curled around her door frame. “I need a chance to explain all the shit that was going down. A chance to prove I am better than you think.”
The last thing she wanted was some kind of one-on-one chat with him, but if she could get him to leave . . . “Yes, fine, call me later. We’ll set something up.” No, we won’t.
Relief flashed across his face, and he leaned forward as if he’d kiss her.
Her hands flew up and pressed to his chest. Was he really missing the furious six-foot-two male behind her? “Good-bye, Royce.”
He nodded once, twice, and turned to leave. But then he stopped.
Seriously, again?
“You left this outside.” Royce bent and picked up a camera that had been on her porch. “Noticed it when I rang the doorbell.” He held the camera out to her. “Here you go.”
Bailey didn’t take it. “That’s not mine.”
“Isn’t it?” Royce frowned at the camera. “Looks like the one you used to haul around everywhere, snapping your pics.” His frown slid away. “Especially when you’d go hiking out to the waterfalls. You’d take a ton of photos, remember?”
Bailey had taken a step back. Her shoulders hit Asher. “That’s not mine,” she said again. She knew her camera—knew that it was in the bottom drawer of her dresser, collecting dust.
Why had someone left a camera on her doorstep? Had another reporter been nosing around again? Someone who’d run off because a neighbor had appeared?
It’s an expensive camera. Royce is right. It does look a lot like mine, just a newer model. Someone wouldn’t just run off and leave a camera like that.
He still held the camera out to her. Asher took it from him, holding it gingerly.
“Asher, wasn’t it?” Royce murmured. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again, too.”
“Count on it.”
Royce’s lip curled but he turned on his heel and hurried down the steps. Bailey didn’t wait to watch him drive away. She had already shut the door, triple locked it, and turned to face Asher.
“That camera . . .”
He’d opened the side hatch. “A memory card is inside.” He pulled it out and held up the blue card. “Let’s see who owns it, shall we?”
Because if there were photos on the card, then maybe they could see that it did belong t
o a reporter or . . .
Bailey hurried past him and booted up her computer. She pulled out her office chair and turned to him with her palm out. He’d crowded into the little home office with her. Ever since the attack, that place had been her refuge. No more lecturing on campus. Now she only taught online history classes. Students saw her only via webcam and no one talked to her in person.
But things are changing now.
Asher put the memory card in her hand. Bailey sucked in a quick breath, then she inserted the card in the slot on the right side of her computer. A few clicks of the mouse later, and she had the images opening.
The first image showed a woman, smiling. A close-up shot, her hand was even still in the frame. She stood in front of a car, with a familiar trail sign in the background. The woman’s long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few loose locks had slipped to hang near her face.
“Oh, my God,” Bailey whispered. Because she knew that woman.
She’d watched her die last night.
Her breath hitched and Bailey hit the mouse again, harder. Faster. Again and again. Images flew up on the screen. The hiking path. Trees. The mountain in the distance. A waterfall.
The twisting waterfall that Bailey liked to visit. She knew that spot so well.
Her finger clicked the mouse again.
Asher was dead silent behind her.
This time, the image was blurry, out of focus. A nothing shot, as if the woman had dropped the camera or taken the picture by accident.
When she saw that shot, Bailey hesitated. She just couldn’t make herself click the mouse again.
Asher’s fingers curled over hers. He pressed down on the mouse.
Another waterfall image. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Bailey could see the rainbow at the bottom of the falls.
Asher clicked again. Another waterfall picture. Closer now, as if the woman had zoomed in on the base of the falls and the rainbow.
His fingers moved against hers. Bailey’s heart raced in her chest. I don’t want to see . . .
This image was farther away, as if the photographer had panned out or backed away from the falls.
Asher’s fingers moved again.