Page 27 of Obsession

A muscle works in his jaw, and he crosses his arms and widens his stance. Something in that darkening look sets me on edge. I’m just about to open my mouth to say something else, when my eyes catch on a spot of red on my desk.

The chair groans as I stand up, inching closer.

What the hell?

A blood-red rose lies atop a folded note amongst the mess, its thorns sharp and deadly to the touch. I trace my fingers over the soft petals, admiring their beauty. What’s it doing here? Surely Elliot didn’t leave me a rose? The thought is not only absurd but highly inappropriate. I’ve never given him reason to think I do anything but abhor his annoying presence. I’ve never given him any mixed signals.

My breath hitches when my eyes land on the note. I carefully slide it out from beneath the rose and unfold it. My eyes scan the harsh lines of what is most definitely masculine handwriting.

Rule number three, Savannah:

Never turn your back on a killer.

“A secret admirer?”

Elliot’s voice—so close to my back—startles me, and I let out a frightened whimper as I whirl around.

“Fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” He holds his hands up beside his head. “I didn’t realize you were so jumpy.”

My heart won’t calm down, thrashing wildly. I grip the desk behind me to keep me upright.

There’s no doubt who the note is from. But how? He’s locked inside a tiny cell twenty-three hours a day and shouldn’t have access to the outside world.

“Are you okay? You look pale.”

Pale? I feel flushed. I’m burning up.

“I’m fine. What do you want?” I don’t mean to sound so rude, but I need him gone.

Fuck, who am I kidding? I most definitely mean to sound rude. The sooner Elliot disappears, the better.

“Look,” he starts, moving closer than I’d like. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot, and I want to make it up to you.”

My brows knit together. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs his shoulders and offers a disarming smile—one I’m sure has seen him get lucky in the past. “I’ve been a dick to you.”

Unsure about his angle, I purse my lips, racking my brain for a response other thanfuck off.My father was a cold monster, but he taught me manners, at least.

Manners were important to him.

“Why don’t we go out for a drink after work?”

“A drink?” I ask, stupefied.

“I just want an opportunity to apologize.”

He slides his hand out from his pants pocket and brings it to my arm as though he wants to touch me but thinks better of it when I stare at his fingers. He drops his hand by his side and reaches behind me. His chest brushes against mine as he picks up the rose on the desk.

My heart stutters, protective of the fragile petals.

He rolls the thorny stem between his fingers, a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wonder what James would think if he knew about your little dalliance with the killer.”

“There’s no dalliance,” I spit out, trying to snatch the rose back, but he holds it out of reach.

“Let me take you out for dinner.”