“Right in the street,” Monica finished.
Like father, like son. One hell of a coincidence.
“F-felt bad when I heard.” Vance rubbed his hand over his face. “Shame, ya know? Watchin’ your old man go out like that.”
In a hail of gunshots and blood.
“Watching?” Monica leaned in close. Blood had appeared on her white bandage. Shit. She needed to get that checked again. She probably needed stitches.
“Jeremy was there.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “His ma died when he was a baby. His dad—he took care of him. That night, word was that he ran after his old man—”
And watched him die.
“Vance!” Davis thundered. “Why the hell are you sitting on your ass? We got a perimeter to secure. Move, man, move!”
Vance scrambled.
“I spoke to the mayor,” Davis said, giving a hard nod. “We’re holding a press conference at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
Attendants loaded Jeremy’s body onto a gurney. Zipped him up and rolled him away.
So much blood was left behind.
Not an easy death. But he’d chosen to go out like that. Chosen the bullet.
By his own hand.
“We’re closing this case.” Fierce voice. Blazing eyes. The sheriff’s voice thundered with an authority Luke hadn’t heard before. “Jones is the killer, and that’s what I’m saying on the news. Jasper is a safe town. I won’t have folks worrying anymore.”
With that, he spun around and strode away.
“I think they do need to worry, Sheriff.” Monica’s voice came, quiet but clear, and stopped the guy in his tracks. “Actually, I think they should worry one hell of a lot.”
The sheriff had frozen, but he didn’t glance back at her. “My town is safe now,” he said again, and Luke wondered if he was trying to convince Monica of that fact—or himself.
Then an EMT raced up to her, muttering about the blood dripping on her arm. And the sheriff kept walking.
“Sheriff—” Monica called.
Luke stepped in front of her. “Stitch her up,” he ordered, shoving his hands into his pockets. The better not to touch. Hold.
Not now. Because that message was plain in her eyes.
Her rules. Her game. Not for much longer.
Monica could hear the ticking of the bedside clock, counting off the seconds. So slowly and way too loud.
No, not too loud. The room was just too quiet.
Monica grabbed the clock. Yanked the batteries out and threw the damn thing across the floor. Her hands were shaking, her entire body trembling.
Fury rode her. It tightened her gut and pounded through her head. She jumped out of the bed. Can’t stay there. Pressing her palms against her eyes, she began to pace. Fast, desperate strides.
F-fuck… you.
Her hands dropped. A dead man’s voice, playing like a broken record in her head.
And even when she closed her eyes, she could see him.
His eyes—angry and afraid.
F-fuck… him.
Had he been afraid of her? Of Luke? Or of something more?
M-my… way. His way, all right. A shot to the head.
“Dammit,” she whispered. “Just… dammit.”
“Monica!” She froze. A fist pounded on the connecting door, hard enough to shake the wood. “Open the door—or it’s coming down!”
Her heart thudded in her chest. Luke. Oh, Christ but she needed him, needed him so much she’d intended to stay away. Because she knew that the moment she was alone with him, she’d break. Shatter.
Covered in a dead man’s blood.
That was how she’d left the crime scene. She’d stayed in the shower for an hour, let the hot water scald her skin, but she still didn’t feel clean.
“Open. The. Door!” Another hard thud with his fist.
I need him.
Too much. One touch, and the need, the hunger, would be too strong. In the past, she’d always had control with her lovers. Even with him.
“Fuck!” Wood splintered. The door flew open and banged against the wall. Her eyes widened.
He’d just kicked her door down. Well, damn.
Something hard slammed against the wall on the far left. A fist? “Keep that crap down!” A man’s voice, snarled and sleepy.
Monica licked her lips. Her heart drummed in her ears, fast, faster, so—
“You could have died today.”
He’d showered too. His blond mane was still wet. He had on his boxers but his chest glistened.
“He could have shot you instead of himself.” The low words rumbled as Luke took a step inside. “You took a risk—you should have shot him.”
She would have. Her finger had been squeezing the trigger. Then she’d realized he wasn’t aiming for her.
No, the gun had been rising, turning, but not at her. At himself.
She’d just been too slow to save Jeremy Jones. A tremble ran the length of her body. “Luke, don’t—” Don’t come any closer. Touch me, and I’ll break.
Touch me, and I’ll feel.
Feeling, that was the dangerous part for her.
He stiffened. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Don’t what?” Another step. “Don’t tell you how scared I was? Don’t tell you that I wanted to shoot the bastard, kill him cold the minute he pulled that gun on you?”
On us. Because he’d been trying to take Luke out, too, and when the shots had started, fear for Luke had nearly choked her. Can’t do this. She could smell Luke. Could all but taste him. “Don’t make me need you more.”
His eyes narrowed. It seemed to take her words a minute to sink in, then he was on her. Grabbing her, jerking her close and crushing his mouth down on hers.
She clutched at him. Her fingers were greedy, desperate. Her mouth locked on his. Her tongue drove past his lips. She stroked him, tasted and craved more.
Her nails bit into his skin. She didn’t care. Right then, the only thing she cared about was the way he made her feel.
No, that he made her feel. Even if the feelings were about to rip her apart.
His hands clenched around her hips. His cock—hard and long and ready—pushed against her sex.
Luke’s mouth tore from hers and he started licking her neck. His teeth raked over her flesh, and he muttered. “Christ, Monica, don’t scare me again, don’t—”
She pulled back. “I don’t want to talk.” Not now. The beast inside her was alive. Hungry.
For him. For every damn thing she’d always wanted and couldn’t have.