Page 23 of Cat and Mouse

"If you find nothing, let's keep this between us."

He's quiet for a beat before saying okay.

I hang up, still scanning the street. There's no way in hell I'm letting him get away that easily. I start a sweep of the neighborhood, moving swiftly but cautiously, checking every corner, every alley. But it's like he's vanished into thin air.

By the time I get back to my house, I'm seething. How the hell does he do that? How does he just disappear? I lock the door behind me, double-checking that every window is secured. My hand drifts to the corner of my mouth, where his lips had barely brushed against mine. It's still burning, an irritating reminder of just how close he was, of how easily he got under my skin.

"What the fuck is your deal, Leo?" I mutter to myself, pacing the living room. This sick fascination he has with me—it's unsettling. And now I have his name. Leonardo. It sounds almost noble, but there's nothing noble about that man.

I think about calling Captain Harris, but what the hell am I supposed to tell him? "Hey, Cap, remember that serial killer who left me cuffed and who the whole department needs to be looking for? Yeah, he just broke into my house to chat." Not happening. Besides, Harris doesn't know everything that went down in Milwaukee, and I'm not about to dredge up that mess tonight.

No, I'll handle this myself. I'll run his name through the database first thing in the morning, see what I can dig up on Leonardo. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get something solid on him. Then I can tell the Captain about it.

I head upstairs, my mind still racing, and grab the gun again, slipping it under my pillow. I've never been one to sleep with a weapon, but tonight, I'm not taking any chances.

I climb into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, but I can't shake the tension coiled in my muscles. I close my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep, but my mind keeps replaying the night's events. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at me. It's all too vivid, too real.

Fuck, Elizabeth, stop. You're not some lovesick teenager. He's a killer, and you're the cop who's supposed to take him down. That's all there is to it.

But sleep doesn't come easy. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of anything else. But my mind keeps drifting back to him, to the way his voice dropped when he said my name, to the way his eyes darkened when he realized what I was trying to say about Milwaukee.

I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself to just sleep. I just need rest. Tomorrow's another day, another chance to get him.

Eventually, I drift off, but my mind doesn't let me off the hook. The dream starts innocently enough—just me in my bed, the same bed I'm lying in now. But then he's there, standing at the foot of it, watching me with those intense eyes.

"Leo," I murmur, half asleep, halfawake. I can almost feel him there, in the room with me.

He moves closer, climbing onto the bed, and I don't stop him. My body betrays me, arching toward him, craving his touch. He's on top of me, pinning me down, just like earlier, but this time there's no gun, no fight. Just heat.

"You're always making things so damn difficult," he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver through me.

"I hate you," I whisper back, but the words lack conviction. My hands reach up, grabbing on to his shoulders, pulling him closer.

He smirks, that infuriating cocky smirk, and leans down, his mouth capturing mine. This time, there's no hesitation, no resistance. I kiss him back, hard, my fingers digging into his back, my body pressing up against his. His hands slide under my tank top, fingers grazing my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Why do you always have to be so difficult, Liz?" he murmurs against my lips.

"Why do you always have to be such a prick?" I shoot back, but I'm breathless, my words coming out in gasps as his hands explore my body, as if he owns it, as if he owns me.

His mouth moves to my neck, and I tilt my head, giving him more access. God, this is so wrong, but it feels so fucking right. His lips trace a path down to my collarbone, and I moan, unable to hold it back.

"You taste so damn good," he growls, his voice rough, filled with something dark and primal.

"Leo…" I gasp, my nails digging into his skin as he moves lower, kissing down my chest, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing them apart.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice husky, full of need.

"Leo," I moan, my body arching toward him, desperate for more.

He pins me down, harder this time, his grip possessive, almost bruising. "You're mine, Liz. You fucking know it."

And in that moment, I believe him. I want him, need him in a way that terrifies me. But it's just a dream, I tell myself. Just a dream…

But it feels so real, so vivid, like he's actually here, his hands on my skin, his breath hot against my neck. I'm lost in it, drowning in him, in the heat, in the need that's consuming me.

He kisses me again, rougher this time, and I respond with equal hunger, my body moving against his, desperate for more, for all of him. I feel him everywhere, overwhelming me, drowning me.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops. I wake up, gasping, my body still thrumming with need, with the aftershocks of the dream. I'm tangled in the sheets, my skin damp, my heart racing.

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