Page 33 of From Hell

“Harsh for a kid.”

He looks at me like I don’t know the half of it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Immediately, I regret saying it. The memory of the last time I was in a tower with Jaxon and the conversation we had comes rushing back. A shudder runs through me. “I never understood why a penny and not a pound,” I blather on.

Jaxon closes the book, placing it on the table. He picks up our drinks and hands me mine. “It’s not about the value. A penny symbolizes the simplest form of currency.”

“And in death, all individuals are equal,” I say, taking a sip.

Jaxon gives me a blank look.

“The Ripper. He leaves pennies on the body of his victims.” It slips out. Maybe I’m bolder now that alcohol is spiking through my veins.

His gaze holds nothing as he looks at me, not a flicker. “Interesting.”

It’s not common knowledge. Only I know because the Ripper left one on my chest. Not two like the others. Half finished. He didn’t even place it on my eyelid because he knew I wasn’t dead. My dad told me about the pennies left on the other victims’ unseeing eyes. They kept that part of his M.O. out of the press. The pennies were old. Not common. Pennies you would collect.

I still have mine—a chilling reminder.

It could be the fire’s warmth or the room’s intimacy that urges me to do what I do next. I don’t know. But using the hand not holding my glass, I sweep away the hair from my neck, displaying my scar for Jaxon to see. He’s on the right side to see it in all its jagged glory.

“You asked me about it the other day.” I look at him and then avert my eyes as I take another sip of my drink. “You were right. The Ripper tried to kill me.”

Jaxon places a hand on my neck to trace the scar, his thumb striking heat where it trails the edges of ruined skin. “But he failed.”

“Someone interrupted him. A dog walker.”

“He didn’t know what he was up against,” Jaxon drawls, leaning in.

His hand curled around my throat feels like ownership, forcing my heart to crash and burn against my ribcage over and over. But then, a warm rush fills me, spreading down to my core as his thumb moves slowly, brushing upward to my jaw and then over my whiskey-stained lips.

He’s going to kiss me.

Jaxon suddenly presses down, muting me with his thumb as the distant sound of people talking and walking toward us takes over the peace.

“Wha—”

Jaw clenched, he shakes his head and stops me from speaking, waiting, listening intently until the sounds get louder. And then, his eyes, flickering with a reflection of the fire’s flames, focus on me.

“Move,” is all he says.

The breath is knocked out of me as Jaxon manhandles me to my feet and practically drags me to the far end of the room, behind one of the heavy brocade curtains that drapes the large windows. Jaxon’s body pressed tightly against mine has me pinned to the wood paneling. The scent of his aftershave, the heat of every contour of his body, and the sound of his breaths in my ear are dizzying. I feel faint. I want to ask why we’re hiding, but with his hand roughly clamped over my mouth, his other hand gripping my waist, I can’t speak a word.…

“Stay very, very still. They can’t know you are here,” Jaxon says ever so softly in my ear.

My heart seizes in my chest.

The people don’t walk past the library but come into it. The door creaks loudly as it swings open. It’s a couple. They stumble inside, laughing about something, clearly drunk. There’s the sound of a cabinet opening and glass clinking.

I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.

“Knew the old fucker stashed some good stuff here,” says the male.

“Christian, pour me one,” a second voice sighs. Clearly female.

“Get it yourself.”

She swears, and there’s the sound of alcohol sloshing. Jaxon is right on top of me, his head bent over my shoulder so his hair tickles my cheek.