Page 35 of Whispers in the Quarter

“Sometimes,” I continue, circling him like a particularly excited shark, “the most fascinating chemical reactions occur when a stable compound is introduced to a catalyst. The breakdown is... exquisite.”

“Stop.” But his voice shakes.

“Why? Because I’m making too much sense? Because everything you’ve built your life around is starting to feel like a beautifully constructed lie?” I pause in front of him, close enough to share breath. “Tell me, Saint, what really keeps you up at night? The criminals you can’t catch, or the ones you let walk free?”

Something snaps behind his eyes. His hand shoots out, grabbing my lapel and shoving me against the wall. “Shut. Up.”

“Make me,” I challenge, grinning manically. “Show me what’s really hiding behind all that virtue, Saint. Show me the monster you’re so afraid of becoming.”

His hand grips my neck deliciously. “I’m nothing like?—”

“Like what? Like me? Like her?” I press harder, watching his control fragment. “Tell me you haven’t dreamed of it. Tell me you haven’t imagined taking justice into your own hands. Tell me Celeste’s work didn’t thrill you even as you hunted her.”

“You know,” he growls, his grip tightening. “You know who she is.”

“I know many things, saint. I know how badly you want to cross that line. I know how tired you are of playing by rules that protect the guilty. I know?—”

His mouth crashes into mine, violent and desperate. Oh, what beautiful chaos. I kiss him back just as fiercely, tasting his surrender, his rage, his liberation.

The hands that had been gripping my lapel now move to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as if he wants to consume me. I let him, eager for the collision of our primal desires.

Our mouths move hungrily against each other, tongues dueling for dominance. I can feel his body pressed against mine, every muscle taut with tension and need. And I revel in it, revel in the fact that I have pushed him to this point.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are wild. “What have you done to me?”

“Nothing you didn’t want, Saint.” I straighten my coat, feeling wonderfully disheveled. “I simply showed you what you already knew—that sometimes the brightest souls cast the darkest shadows.”

He steps back, running shaking hands through his hair. “The evidence, the deaths, Celeste... you’ve been protecting her. Working with her.”

“With? For? The prepositions become rather blurry when dealing with forces of nature.” I move to my desk, picking up the vial I’d shown him earlier. “The question isn’t what I’ve been doing, saint. It’s what you’re going to do now.”

“I should arrest you. Both of you.”

“Should,” I echo, rolling the vial between my fingers. “Such a tedious word. Laden with all those moral imperatives that have never quite satisfied you.” I hold out the vial. “Want to try something more... liberating?”

For a long moment, Ethan just stares at the vial in my hand. I can practically see the war behind his eyes—duty versus desire, law versus justice, saint versus sinner. Beautiful.

“What’s in it?” he finally asks, voice rough.

“Truth,” I purr. “Or maybe madness. They’re really quite similar at the molecular level.”

His laugh sounds half-broken. “You’re actually insane.”

“Brilliantly so. And you, my dear Saint...” I step closer, pressing the vial into his hand, “are finally ready to fall from grace.”

He looks down at the vial, then back to me. The hunger in his eyes makes my pulse race with scientific excitement. “If I take this...”

“Then there’s no going back,” I finish. “Rather like that kiss. Though I must say, ethical crisis is a stunning look on you.”

His free hand catches my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. The touch carries equal parts threat and promise. “I hate you,” he whispers.

“No, saint.” I grin against his thumb. “You hate that I’m right.”

When he kisses me again, it tastes like surrender and chemicals and the death of everything he used to believe in. Perfect.

The kiss is wilder this time, a desperate blend of passion and frustration. I can feel Ethan’s resolve wavering with each sweep of my tongue against his, with every brush of our bodies as we press closer together. He tastes like surrender and chemicals and the death of everything he used to believe in. It’s perfect.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters against my lips, even as his hands tighten on my waist.

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