Page 32 of Make You Mine

I stop that train of thought in its tracks. Feels wrong.

Because no matter how much I should, I won’t. There’s only him.

I want Elijah near me, even if it’s just within the same building. Same home. Protecting me.

“How the hell do I make these desires go away?”

The truth is that the answer might just be scarier than the question.

12

ELIJAH

“Fuck,” I hiss low, rubbing my eyes. A mixture of anger and exhaustion consumes me, and a headache is forming at the back of my skull, making it harder to concentrate. It’s pounding, and all I want to do is rest, but Ican’t. Not until Jason Ripley is behind bars or dead from a bullet between the eyes, preferably from my gun.

I’m a man of my word, and I keep my promises.

Moreover, I haven’t had a single good night’s sleep since Ava arrived, and each encounter brands me. She holds a power over my being no one else has before. The sight of her in that towel a few days back almost annihilated my resolve, because job be damned, I want her.

Badly. Insanely.

Exhaling roughly, I stretch my neck from side to side and glance at the clock. I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours now and should take a nap, but the information I’m currently dissecting won’t let my mind settle.

Rest; something now foreign to me. Blue balls are also in my immediate future.

Get it together, Ford. You have a job to do.

Right. My job. The one I seem to not give three fucks about when I’m near her.

Refocusing on the laptop in front of me, my eyes feel the strain—everything on the screen becoming a bit blurry as I read through the latest information Captain Perez sent yesterday morning. The electronic file contains new details very few are privy to, and if the media got wind of its severity, we’d have a panic on our hands.

The sudden mass reports of bullshit sightings will pull us away from what could be a capture. I’ve seen it before: prank calls and false information flooding our offices, and manpower becoming thin as we work to confirm each one.

Scanning the picture in front of me, I take in the placement of certain items inside the shot. How his style of operation is changing, twisting, and the results left behind for investigators to find are careless. Sloppy, even.

As of the latest reports and findings, we have another body.

This is the second since Ava’s been in my care and exactly fourteen days apart.

Another girl that looks so much like her, and it fucks with my head. My vow to capture this son of a bitch myself wavers for a moment as the urge to grab her and disappear forms around the edge of my subconscious. Not that I would, but the thought is tempting.

“We can’t allow him the chance at another victim,” I grit out from between clenched teeth. I’m pissed and it cuts deep to add another state to the already thick file: Texas, California, Arizona—and since she’s been under witness protection—New Mexico.

Fifteen bodies now. Fifteen cases to sift through as I wait for the inevitable.

My mind won’t shut down as I look through each crime scene photo, breaking down the similarities and jotting down the new habits.

His kills are becoming messy. There’s a note of angry desperation in each gruesome scene.

Jason Ripley wants our attention. He thrives on her fear.

Clicking the mouse, I shift to the next set and come to a stop at the note found at the crime scene. It’s tagged and numbered, the date stamp from three days ago. Then, there’s the same block-like writing style brought on by the heavy use of an oversized-tipped Sharpie Marker. This is reminiscent of a homemade sign people make for games or concerts; it’s meant to be generic, and yet there’s the way he draws a line through her name and the letter “e” that’s becoming a tell.

There’s anger in that stroke. A lot of frustration.

It’s also in the streaks of blood made using his fingertips beneath the two lines.

Possessive. Threatening.

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