I raked my fingers through my hair, with my own helplessness threatening to choke me. "You're playing right into his hands."
"And what's your strategy?" He stepped closer, close enough that heat radiating from him mixed with the heat from the flames. "Wait for him to stop?"
"I don't wait." The words came out clipped, desperate. "I find patterns and predict behavior."
"Then predict this—what happens if I walk away?"
I met his gaze, my voice dropping as the truth crystalized with horrible clarity. "You don't get it, do you? He doesn't want to kill you, Marcus. Not yet. He wants to shape you. Like metal in a forge or like clay in a kiln. He's turning you into what he sees as his greatest work."
Marcus curled his fingers into fists at his sides, tendons standing out against skin that had gone pale beneath his tan.
"I'm not playing his fucking game."
I shook my head, my throat tight with all the horrors I saw coming. "You already are. And I can't—" My voice cracked. "I can't watch you burn."
Silence stretched between us as the mannequin's flames finally began to die. The sound of waves lapping against the shore continued despite the gravity of what was happening—nature continued its rhythms while someone systematically dismantled everything I'd tried to protect.
Marcus exhaled, dragging a hand over his jaw. When he spoke, his voice had an edge of desperation I'd never heard before. "Come back to my place. Just for tonight."
My spine stiffened as my professional walls slammed into place like the doors of a bank vault. "Not happening."
"You shouldn't be alone right now." The concern in his voice was like acid on my skin.
"I'm fine."
His head tilted as he studied me, seeing too much. "Yeah? That's why you haven't stopped looking over your shoulder?"
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, something cracked. He was right. Somewhere between the first warehouse fire and this moment, I'd lost my carefully maintained distance. Lost my scientific detachment. Lost everything that had kept me safe after Harrison.
And Marcus knew.
I crossed my arms, trying to hold myself together. "I'm going home."
Frustration rippled across his features as he exhaled sharply. "Fine." A beat passed, heavy with things neither of us could say. Then: "My family's Sunday dinner. You're coming."
"What?"
He shrugged with a forced casualness that didn't mask the intensity in his eyes. "Dinner. At my mom's. You're invited."
A startled laugh escaped me, brittle and sharp. "Is that a joke? No."
"It's not a joke." His steady gaze held mine, stripped of all pretense.
"You think getting me to meet your family is going to do what? Keep me from walking away?"
The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes remained serious. "Maybe. You scared?"
I exhaled slowly, feeling the last of my defenses crumbling. He was impossible. He was going to get himself killed, and I was going to have to watch it happen. "Fine. But I'm leaving the second things get weird."
His grin said it all. "Everything's weird. You're already screwed."
I hated that he was right. I hated how deep he'd already gotten under my skin, and I hated how much I needed him to survive this.
***
Later, alone in my apartment, three locks engaged on the door still didn't feel like enough. The weight of the deadbolt sliding into place should have reassured me, but I still pressed my palm flat against the door for a moment, listening. Nothing but the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint drip of a faucet that needed fixing.
My apartment was a study in control, a space curated for function rather than comfort. The dark walnut bookshelves—custom-built to exact dimensions—were lined with old hardcovers, their spines faded from years of handling.
