Page 101 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

I don’t know what true love feels like, I have nothing to compare it to, or if anyone truly does, for that matter—but if this is love, then it’s a vile sickness.

As he fixates on me, the club lights dim blue, shadowing his expression. My eyes are drawn to a patch of skin near his eye. My hand goes to his hairline, and I brush my fingers along his temple, feeling the rough scar. I push his hair aside to reveal the damaged skin. The wound is new.

My chest tightens, constricting the air in my lungs. I recognize the burn mark, because I have the same ones. I drop my hand as my mind goes to a dark place.

He captures my wrist and secures my hand between us. Then his gaze lingers on the scar along my temple. “Matching scars,” he says. “We should get tattoos, too.”

“Did you do that to yourself?” I ask, disgust evident in my voice.

A devious expression creases his eyes. “I was paid a visit by your friend Grayson,” he says into my ear, his hand clenched around my wrist to the point of pain. “You know, right after you met with his psychologist.”

A roar fills my ears, the music muted to a dull pulse.

London.

Too many thoughts crowd my head, but one fights for dominance: I told London that Alex was a killer.

Alex regards my expression, his features losing some of the edge. “It’s okay,” he says, dipping his head to find my gaze. “I forgive you. It’s my fault I wasn’t there for you.”

He’s reading the wrong emotions in my mortified expression. I don’t feel remorse; I’m petrified.

London deliberately lied to me. She knew, while sitting across from me and staring me in the eyes, that Grayson was already searching for Alex. She knew more than what I revealed to her, and…

“Do they know about Ericson?”

Alex doesn’t take long to catch up to my train of thought. Suddenly the delusion fades from his eyes, and he stares at me with clear comprehension.

He leans in to say near my ear, “They know. But they don’t know who killed him.”

I take a moment to process this information before I look into Alex’s face. Grayson subjected Alex to his own torturous treatment, just as London claimed he would. But he left Alex alive, an action not likely in a killer’s nature.

And Alex found me. Now. Not because he was stalking one of my targets—but because he was searching for me.

Suddenly, I feel trapped.

I glance around the flashing club, wary of every set of eyes that look our way.

London could’ve subdued me. Grayson could’ve killed Alex.

They didn’t.

They want something.

And Alex is here to deliver it to them.

Raising my hands slowly, I link my arms around Alex’s neck. “We’re making a scene,” I say.

He’s hesitant, his muscles stiff, frame locked and unyielding. I draw closer to him, aligning my body with his, every contour and curve fitted seamlessly. My breasts rub against his chest, the friction tightening my nipples, and I try to ignore the hollow ache between my thighs at the feel of his erection pressing against my pelvis.

There was never a question of whether or not Alex and I fit physically. His leanly carved muscular definition suits my physique. He’s strong and can claim me on the side of a cliff, kiss me until I’m breathless under a waterfall—and it’s so easy to close my eyes and fall into him.

He’s familiar in a way no one else has ever been. Which makes it fucking confusing when my body is fighting need and my mind is battling with a heart that knows better, because he’s already broken any chance of trust between us.

But this isn’t about trust, or lust, or even love.

It’s about staying alive long enough to know what comes next.

Despite my treacherous emotions, some facet of me wants to fight, to live. Maybe not in spite of but because of them. A toxic conundrum I don’t have time to sort through right now.

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