Page 56 of The Forgery Mate


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I splash cold water on my face, the shock clearing the fog of panic enough for my vision to sharpen. Water drips from my chin as I lean in closer to the mirror, tilting my head to examine the collar. A tiny mark etched into the surface of the collar catches the light.

I missed it in my frantic attempts to remove it and bring out my phone to take a picture of it. When I zoom in on the image, instead of a manufacturer’s logo or serial number, I find elegant initials.

E.R. Ezra Rockford.

My stomach drops as if the floor has disappeared beneath my feet. This wasn’t some impulse purchase after I showed up at the gallery. This wasn’t a reaction to my flight-risk tendencies. This was planned. Designed specifically for me.

A memory surfaces with such clarity that it steals my breath.

Ezra’s fingers on my throat during those thirty-one days we spent together, before I ran the first time. We’d been lounging in his bed at Rockford Manor, my head in his lap as he traced patterns on my skin.

“Hold still,” he’d said, thumb pressing under my jaw. “I want to measure you.”

“For what?” I’d asked, laughing at the strange request.

His fingers and thumbs had circled my throat, meeting at my pulse point. “A necklace, maybe.”

I’d waved my hand dismissively. “I don’t wear jewelry.”

Because Knox was too stuffy to indulge in anything not functional.

Now the memory burns.

How long had Ezra been planning this? How many nights did he lie awake beside me, measuring my throat with his hands, calculating the exact dimensions needed to trap me?

The bathroom walls creep in, the air too thick to fill my lungs. He plied me with whiskey last night to dull my senses and lower my guard so I wouldn’t fight when he locked me into this trap.

Thirty-one days together. Twelve months apart. Two days reunited. Three months gone. One night back in his arms.

The numbers spin in my head. Had he been counting all along, expecting each departure, preparing for each return?

How many months does he tally before those first thirty-one days? How many years?

Heat surges through me, a tidal wave of rage that crashes against the shore of my restraint and obliterates it. My fist connects with the mirror before I realize I’m moving, the glass splintering beneath my knuckles with a satisfying crack. Pain blooms across my hand, but I ignore it as I strike again.

The mirror shatters this time, fragments cascading into the sink in a symphony of destruction. Blood smears across the remaining shards still clinging to the frame, my knuckles split and throbbing. The soap dispenser topples next, contents spilling in a viscous puddle that mixes with water and blood to create a marbled mess.

I sweep my arm across the counter, sending my toiletries flying, toothbrush clattering on the tile, and razor skidding under the radiator. Cologne bottles and pheromone blockers smash into the wall, filling the small space with cloying sweetness.

The cut on my neck reopens, a thin trickle of blood sliding down to my collarbone, warm and wet on my skin.

The sight of it slows my rampage as the crimson stain spreads, bisecting love bites, brighter than the bruises. Is this the kind of pain that drove Ezra to the tattoo parlor? That put his skin beneath the drum of the needle? I can understand the appeal of needing to feel something outside of these emotions, something within my control.

My chest heaves with exertion, each breath burning in my lungs as if I’ve run for miles. I brace myself against the sink, mindful of the glass shards as my muscles tremble with adrenaline aftershocks. The bathroom around me stands in ruins.

He said he wasn’t patient. But he’s been building this trap for years.

From that first meeting, when I approached him as Knox, thinking myself so clever, so in control. Ezra had been three steps ahead all along, allowing me to believe I was the hunter when I was always the prey.

And I never saw it. Not once in all our time together did I recognize the depth of his fixation, the careful architecture of his trap closing around me one calculated move at a time. I was too busy protecting him from my deceptions to realize he was weaving his own.

My hands won’t stop shaking as I pick a shard of glass from my knuckle, blood welling in its place. The pain pulls me back from the edge of hysteria threatening to consume me.

I thought I was seducing a little prince. It turns out I was baring my throat to a king.

The buzz of my phone on the counter slices through my thoughts, the vibration sending it spinning on the hard surface. For a moment, I stare at it, watching it dance and tremble. My blood drips onto the floor in slow, deliberate taps that count the seconds before I reach for it, smearing the screen with red as I check the caller ID.

Unknown Number.