Page 45 of Pure Killers

"I know, I'm just feeling under the weather. Keep going."

Chloe turns back, pressing the button to change to the next scene. That map of the Cocooner scenes this year. The one that niggles me. There's something there, but it escapes me, to where I’ve convinced myself that I’m just imagining any pattern, a trick my brain is playing.

"Looks like you got a visitor."

I look up. Seb is in the doorway, looking slightly bashful.

"Shit." I curse. I'd completely forgotten that we'd planned to get breakfast. "I'm sorry, Seb, I can't…" I start to say.

Dirk waves a hand. "Just go. Maybe a break will help. Let’s all take a breather," he says to the room. I catch his eye, recalling his feelings on dying in the way the Cocooner constructs. This detailed look into the method of death can’t be pleasant for him, either. Perhaps it’s nightmare fuel. He gives me a somewhat thin smile, nodding towards Seb, and I take my out.

As I leave, I hear Howie's back creaking with a long stretch, and then the door taps closed as I walk down the hall with Seb. Something nice, that’s what I said I needed. So why does this feel so much less real than last night, which itself should be an impossible thing?

Chapter six

When I step back into my bedroom, he's there.

I gasp and nearly drop my cup of tea. It's been a week since whatever happened between us took place in this very bed. Things have been quiet, a revolving door of work, resisting the bottle, eating and sleeping. Almost my normal life, or so I could believe. But now he's here, a tall dark figure in the dim light of my desk lamp, thumbing through the file I brought home on Cocooner.

Pushing the door closed behind me, I cross the room in two steps and close the file, taking it out of his hands. Feeling a little like a lion keeper naively snatching food from the mouth of the beast, I step back as that silver mask turns to me. "This isn't for members of the public," I tell him.

If I could see his eyebrow, I bet it would be raised right now.

“No?” He takes a moment to flick the lamp off, casting the room into ever more dim light. “Am I a member of the public?"

"Of a sort," I respond, then turn my back on him, putting the file down on my bedside table, next to my tea and optimistically, away from him. I feel him behind me then, and in a moment ofhesitation, but I don’t turn. His long fingers graze the back of my neck where my t-shirt sits loose.

"Our deal is done," I remind him, voice low as the shiver travels down my spine.

"Mm, it is, too." He's a light pressure along my back now, brushing against me with a suggestion of more. "I guess this could just be for other reasons, then?"

I glance back over my shoulder at him, though he’s so close I only see the edge of his shoulder. "Why are you here?"

"I'm just checking up on you."

My eyes narrow. “Again, it’s called being a stalker.”

He huffs a laugh. "With the things you get into, you almost need one… with your best interest at heart, of course."

I sneer and turn away in an effort to dismiss him. Pretending he's not there, right behind me, is hard when I can feel the hair on the back of my neck raised with the hint of his breath.

"What do your people know about Cocooner?"

I laugh, thumbing the file myself. "You're not looking to get information from me, surely? Why would I tell you?"

His fingers brush my upper arm, sliding under my loose sleeve. "Why not? Don't we want the same thing? Less innocent deaths?"

“I want you arrested.”

"Mm, not trying too hard on that lately, though, are you?" He's a light pressure along my back now, his boots brushing the backs of my bare heels, nudging between. I shift as though to shrug him off, but the movement only brushed my shoulder blades and my butt against his front, making me more aware of him.

"You make it difficult to do anything about it when you threaten to kill whoever comes to help."

The air from his softly spoken words tickles the hair on the back of my ear. "You could try yourself. I could enjoy the fight, pinning you down…"

My throat suddenly needs clearing. His hand rests on the small of my waist, his other down, at the bottom of my shirt, on the side of my thigh, toying with the hem. I'm wearing tiny silk boxer-style shorts. He finds the lacy bottom edge of those. Gripping his wrist, I attempt to control my breathing, which has turned heavy. Finding the tie on my boxers, he tugs, and they slide down, my hand still wrapped around his wrist but unresistant as he moves. They pool around my ankles, and he's lifting the shirt over my hip, my bare butt pressing back against the front of his pants.

"Why do you resist it when you moan so loudly once you have it?" he murmurs, tongue flicking over the top of my ear. My breath hitches, hips swaying back. Movement in the corner of my eye. Then I'm watching his mask, watching him place it on the table in front of me, face up. I must still myself from turning around. "Don't look now, or I'll have to keep you," he warns.

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