Page 27 of Playing with Fyre

I try to scowl at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Fyre reaches into his pocket. My heart climbs up my throat, followed by a rush of warm, acidic bile.

This is it. It’s finally over.

I squeeze my eyes closed so I can’t see the knife or the gun or whatever it is he’s going to kill me with. Light bathes my eyelids. I struggle to keep them closed, but finally, they pop open, ready to confront my attacker.

I’m staring at a cell phone. There’s an image on the screen. For a second, I have no idea what I’m looking at.

And then the bile that was sitting in the back of my throat, kept in place by my pounding heart, gushes into my mouth. I turn my head, puking violently onto the filthy ground beside me.

“He’ll never touch you again, Charlotte. He’ll never touchanyoneever again.”

My stomach contracts, but there’s nothing left. I haven’t eaten in days. All that was in there was that one mouthful of stomach acid. I push myself up using the bricks as support and lean my head back against their rough surface.

“And now it’s my turn?” I whisper.

Fyre cocks his head as a strange smile plays on his lips. “You don’t recognize him,” he muses quietly. “It’s understandable. Death changes everything.” He looks at the phone, then juggles it in his hand. When he turns it to face me, I instantly look away, squeezing my eyes shut with a terrified whimper. “Look at him, Charlotte. Who do you see?”

Fyre needs to be humored. Perhaps, if I do what he says, he’ll let me go. So I look. And I do my best to forget that the image I’m looking at is a severed head. Fyre helps—his finger is obscuring the bottom of the photo. I’m left with a view of a man’s face from the chin up.

Slack. Distended. Mouth gaping. Eyes open—empty and sad.

I blink, and suddenly it’s not just a head. Not just a dead person. I recognize his nose. The shape of his eyes. A gasp rattles in my throat. I wrench the phone from Fyre’s hand and stare at it with bug eyes.

Peter Monroe.

“How…”

Gentle fingers take the phone out of my hand. Fyre grabs my chin and tips my head up. Then he strokes the side of my face, his knuckles drawing warm tingles over my skin.

“He suffered for his sins, my girl.” Fyre puts his mouth by my ear. “Not nearly as long as he made you suffer, but my time with him was limited.” He kisses my neck, his voice somehow managing to reach me over the roar of blood in my ears.

“Seven hours for seven days.” Another kiss, this one softer than the last.

How did he know about Peter Monroe? How did hefindhim? Why would he—

“I did it for you.” Fyre draws back, cups my face in his hands. “All of this, I did for you.”

We stare at each other as the rain drums down around us. I feel weightless and so heavy at the same time. Clear-headed, but foggy. I have no words for what Fyre did for me. It’s criminal. Psychotic. And so fucking heroic, I can’t breathe.

I dart forward, grabbing him up in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” I mumble against his damp jacket. He slides his arms around my shoulders, hugging me back just as hard.

“My pleasure,” he says, stroking my head.

I know I should stop touching him, but it’s impossible to let him go. Where my head is, I can hear his heart beating.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

And I know, somehow, that it beats for me.

Me…andonlyme.

But this man is a killer. A psycho. Mystalker.I should be running from him, not hugging him. Something approaching logic slithers back into my mind, and I bring up my hands, pushing against his chest.

It doesn’t matter what his intentions were, or how much gratitude I feel for what he did. Murdering Peter Monroe was a crime. Two wrongs don’t make a right.

---