Page 2 of Fatal Pattern

She spun, fist cocked for a power jab at his face, but she only struck air. Gone. The coward had melted into the shadows along the wall, black clothing swallowed by the darkness as he disappeared into the alley beyond. Her chance—blown. She could have ended this right here, right now. Could have put him down and dragged answers out of him. Instead, she was standing here bleeding while he slipped away like the roach he was.

A car screeched to a halt beside her. The driver’s door flew open. Detective Blade St. James erupted from his unmarked Charger with his hand on his holstered weapon. “Tori? You okay?”

Her fingers went to her throat and came away sticky with blood. She stared at the crimson smear. A savage anger bubbled up inside her chest. He’d touched her. Cut her. And vanished like smoke.

“What the—” Blade’s eyes widened at her blood-slick fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch.” Her knees felt shaky. She’d had every skill and training to handle situations exactly like this, and she’d let the stalker get the drop on her.

“What happened? Who was that?”

“My stalker.” She pressed the cut to stem the bleeding.

“Stalker?” His voice rose in disbelief. “What stalker? Since when do you have a stalker?”

“Three weeks, give or take.” A crimson droplet had dropped on her knuckle. Perfect. Round. Like a bead of glass.

“I’ve always liked the color of blood.”

Ice slid through her veins.

“And you didn’t think to mention this?” Blade had his phone out. “We need to call this in. Get you to a hospital.”

“No.” She caught his wrist. “The locals are aware, but you know stalker cases. Nothing they can do.”

“Tori, he had a knife to your throat.” His voice ticked up. “That’s attempted murder.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. Let’s do this right. Get an officer out here. Take your statement, photos, dust for prints, canvass witnesses—”

“There are no witnesses at four thirty in the morning!” She swept her arm toward the deserted street and empty parking lot. “And he wore gloves, so no prints. We’ve got nothing.”

“All the more reason to report it. You say this guy’s been watching you for weeks, and now he’s crossed the line to physical assault. He’s escalating.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She dropped her hand from the cut and stormed over to Blade’s car.

She hadn’t seen a hint of the stalker in the last week, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Even now, standing in the dark parking lot, she sensed he was still nearby.

“Look, I didn’t see the knife or his face, but we’ve got footage from the security cameras. We’ve got four hours in the car to fill out a police report. I’d rather do it myself than stand around here being told how many things I did wrong.”

Blade’s eyes lost that hard detective edge. His thumb, calloused from a thousand hours lifting weights at the gym, lifted her chin. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt straight through the icy shock that encased her. Heat, unexpected and unwelcome, pooled in its wake. The urge to lean into that warmth warred with the instinct to pull away from a closeness that suddenly felt . . . dangerous. More dangerous than the man who’d held a knife to her throat.

His gaze dropped to the cut, his focus so absolute the world seemed to narrow to the few inches between them. “This needs medical attention.”

“It’s superficial.” The words came out breathless. She stepped back, breaking the contact. The sudden loss of his touch left her skin cold, but she needed the space. Not just to think. To breathe.

Blade stood there in his rumpled slacks and dress shirt, his hand working the change or keys in his pocket. The look on his face said everything his mouth wasn’t.

“Don’t make that face at me, Blade. I’m a big girl.”

“You are the most stubborn—” He caught himself. Shook his head and looked around the parking lot as if he expected the stalker to lunge at her again. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”

“I figured.” She resisted rolling her eyes.

She’d known Blade since they were teenagers, young and stupid, throwing punches at heavy bags in the Kingdom MMA Gym where they’d both been court ordered to live and attend the Warrior program.

Back then, Blade’s restless energy had matched her desperation to hit something—anything—until her knuckles bled and her mind went quiet. Unlike her, he processed everything out loud. Their talks turned into him working through problems step by step while she listened.