Page 53 of His Dark Pull

Footsteps. He’s coming closer.

“You’re not like the others, Ava,” he murmurs, his voice a silken caress that does nothing to ease the terror coiling in my gut. “You’re special.”

His scent hits me then—expensive cologne, a hint of something spicy, familiar. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. My body screams at me to run, to fight, but I force myself to remain still.

He steps behind me. I feel the heat of his body radiating towards me, a wall of warmth that feels suffocating. His fingers brush against my bare arm, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear, and I inhale sharply, the scent of him both intoxicating and terrifying.

“I’ll let you sleep,” he whispers, his voice a low growl that sends goosebumps erupting across my skin. “And we’ll see if you’re more willing to talk tomorrow, beautiful.”

I hold my breath, my entire body rigid as he lingers behind me for a moment. Then, with a rustle of fabric against fabric, he retreats. The door clangs shut, sealing me back in the darkness. But even in the silence, I can still feel his presence, his touch a phantom burn on my skin. And as my mind races, trying to identify the haunting voice that makes me feel colder and more insidious than any I’ve felt before.

My nightmare is far from over.

* * *

The harsh clanging of the cell door jolts me awake, my body stiff and sore from the concrete floor. The damp, musty air of the room clings to me like a shroud. Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, drawing closer.

What now—

The door creaks open, and a guard enters, his face grim and shadowed, but at least it isn’t the leering predator from the night before. He places a tray of food and a cup of water on the floor, his movements robotic.

I pick at the meager offerings. The food is bland.

I think about the man from last night; his voice is haunting me.

The guard returns and leads me out of the cell, down the hallways, and into another room, this time without the blindfold. It’s a stark space, with its bare walls and solitary chair.

Hours seem to pass as I wait, the ropes binding my wrists and cutting into my skin, leaving a trail of raw, stinging pain and small pools of blood in my palms.

Then, I hear it again—the voice—the low, husky drawl that freezes me up instantly, the voice from my dreams. It’s the voice of the man from last night.

Something isn’t right.

My stomach coils as the door opens, and he strides into the room. Tall and imposing, he radiates authority. He approaches me, his dark eyes locked on mine, his gaze intense.

“Ava,” he says, his voice deep, sending a tremor through my body. “We need to talk.”

“Dexter?”I gasp, the air catching in my throat.

Gone is the awkward, boyish photographer from the office, replaced by this— man. His clothes, no longer the casual attire of a creative professional, are sharp and expensive. His body language is confident, bordering on arrogance.

I try to maintain my composure as he circles me like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes scrutinizing me, dissecting my every reaction.

“You’re a smart girl, Ava. You know the game. So why the charade? It’s boring me.”

“Dexter, I—”I stammer. “Why?”

“Why not, Ava?”he counters, his lips twisting what is supposed to be a smile.

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I have nothing to say to you,”I reply.

Dexter, it makes sense now. His intrusive questions, his snooping around in my office, how Kovacs got into my office, and how Alexander knew about Cole’s sexual assault. They have surveillance in Spectrum, thanks to Dexter. But why? Still, something is missing.A motive.

“All this time in the office,”I say, “talking, working together—was that all a lie?”

He leans closer, his breath hot against my skin, his lips brushing against my hair. “Ah, just like last night.”

“Answer my question,”I spit.

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