Mind of the Phoenix (21 page)

Let go!

He releases me at the same time that my hand closes around the revolver. I turn to raise the weapon at him, with every intention of shooting. I will not feel fear or regret because this man deserves neither emotion. I suddenly realize that I have never used a revolver before, and I hope it’s as simple as pulling the trigger and hitting your mark. I decide there is no other option other than to try, and I instinctively shoot. The bullet embeds itself somewhere in his shoulder, and despite the crimson stain blossoming on his shirt I know I’ve missed his heart. His confusion and pain are quickly replaced with anger, and I feel his thick fingers close around my throat once more. As the air quickly escapes my lungs, I’m left with one prevailing thought: one of us is going to die, and it won’t be me.

J
ust when I
’m close to shooting once more, I hear someone say, “Release her, Constable Bradford.
Now.
”

The man’s brown eyes focus on me, and, even though they still contain unbridled hate, they’re no longer murderous. Within a second, his hands release me and he slowly rises to meet the detective’s gaze. The left side of his shirt is covered in blood and his pants are still unbuttoned, but neither fact seems to bother him. He lifts up his hands as if in surrender, and that’s when I realize that the detective has his revolver pointed at the constable. Yet Constable Bradford isn’t worried, because he has a plan—one that will paint me as the guilty one. He will tell Keenan that I tried to escape, and then I’ll be executed because no one will believe me. I sit up and tentatively touch my bruised neck, my other hand still tightly grasping the revolver. Could I threaten them both and try to escape?

“Thank God you’re here, detective,” says Constable Bradford, feigning relief. “The concubine tried to escape. I’m lucky I–”

“Why are your pants undone, constable?” asks the detective coolly, his revolver still aimed at the other man.

“What?” Constable Bradford looks down in momentary confusion, but quickly recovers. “She tried to seduce me, sir. That’s when she grabbed for my gun.”

I grit my teeth at the sound of the lie, but remain silent. There’s probably no point in trying to deny the constable’s story, especially since Keenan had walked in on a very similar scene many days ago in the bathroom.

“What’s going on, detective?” asks Rick, who has appeared behind him along with several other constables. Damn. Threatening Keenan would have been difficult, but threatening five men of the law is just impossible. Still, my grasp on the revolver tightens.

“The detective saved my life,” says Constable Bradford, buttoning his pants. “I would have been a dead man had he not barged in.”

God, is that a smirk of satisfaction on his face? Still, beneath that smile I can feel his anger. He’s annoyed with the unexpected intrusion and, with the wound I inflicted on him, I know it won’t be long before he makes another attempt to kill me. He thinks that next time I won’t survive, but he’s wrong. Next time, I won’t be caught off guard, nor will I be foolish with my use of persuasion. There are many things that I could have done differently, and they would have all resulted in the same outcome: me back in prison.

Rick’s eyes immediately fall on me, but they don’t contain the blatant accusation that I see in the other two constables behind him. My chest tightens at the knowledge that at least
someone
doubts Constable Bradford’s story. Too bad it won’t save me.

“Moira, give the revolver to Constable Jamieson,” says the detective in a casual tone, though the command in the words is unmistakable.

I’ve been very careful to avoid his gaze since the moment he entered the room, but now I look up at him defiantly. “No.”

I see a flicker of annoyance in those green eyes before it disappears in that neutral mask of his. “Moira–”

“I wasn’t trying to escape!” I shout, rising from the bed. His calm exterior infuriates me and has made me blurt out. “This sick bastard is
lying
. He–”

“
Give
me the revolver,” he demands, his patience gone.

“No.” I point the weapon once again at Constable Bradford and try to ignore the fact that my heart is galloping at an alarming rate. “If I die, then he dies as well.”

I hear the detective sigh in exasperation as the other two constables draw their weapons on me. Rick continues to glance between me and the detective. It’s obvious that the only person who might possibly believe me is Constable Jamieson, so I’m as good as dead anyway. I have no desire to crawl back into the underground prison just to be executed days later in front of a hateful crowd, nor do I have any intention of letting Constable Bradford get away with his crimes. If the detective and the rest of the police won’t carry out justice for Ginny and Rebekah, then I will. But this time I promise I won’t miss his heart. My resolve deepens as the bastard gives me a victorious grin. I give him a look that promises he won’t be smiling for long.

“Fine, Moira, we’ll do it your way,” says the detective reluctantly. “Constables, detain Anthony Bradford.”

“What?” blurts Constable Bradford, his previous rage returning. And I have to admit that even
I’m
confused by the detective’s words. “Don’t you mean to detain
her
?”

“Detective?” questions one of the constables in confusion.

“I said detain Anthony Bradford
now
,” he demands once more, and the constables quickly approach the other man.

Constable Bradford struggles against them, but doesn’t resist when they handcuff him. “You’re making a mistake, detective.”

“I don’t think so,” says Keenan, as he returns his revolver to the inside of his jacket. “Constables, escort Anthony back to the underground prison. I’ll be there shortly.”

“I’m the innocent one!” shouts Constable Bradford as they force him out into the hallway. “Why the fuck are you arresting
me
?”

The detective is suddenly by my side with his right hand extended. “
Now
will you give me the revolver?”

I realize then that I still have the weapon aimed at no one in particular, now that Constable Bradford is gone, so I lower it and tentatively place it in Keenan’s hand. My mind is still fervently trying to understand what just happened. A part of me is convinced that it should have been me screaming and being forced toward the underground prison—at least that would have made more sense in my mind. Yet, miraculously, I’m still alive and unbound.

“Am I dreaming?”

The detective raises one inquisitive brow. “It would be one rather unusual dream.”

I laugh nervously. “Not compared to my usual dreams.” I look into his green eyes and am unsettled when I don’t see suspicion directed at me. “I don’t get it.”

He grabs the blanket off of the bed and drapes it over my shoulders. “What do you not get?”

“Why you had the constables arrest Constable Bradford,” I say, pulling the blanket tight around my chest.

“Would you rather have had me arrest
you
?”

“No,” I say, annoyed. “But he did tell you that I tried to escape, and I just thought that you would have believed him.” Like the last time you walked in on Constable Bradford and me, detective. He seems to understand my unspoken statement, and his expression softens.

“If you had tried to escape, then you wouldn’t have sent the hotel clerk to the police station.” His brows then furrow into a stern expression, and I can sense his confusion. “Granted, you’re lucky I didn’t ignore the man.”

“Why would you have ignored him?”

“Because he simply barged into the police station and demanded to speak with me. But when I asked him what he wished to say, he only said that he was supposed to tell me something but he didn’t know what.”

I begin to laugh hysterically, which only makes the detective frown in anger.

“I hardly think that’s funny, Moira.”

“It’s not… I–” I break off, unable to stifle the fit of giggles erupting from deep within.

It finally dawns on him then that my laughter is not a product of genuine mirth, but rather the hysteria bubbling out of me. It’s annoying when you’re incapable of responding with the appropriate emotions to stressful situations. People think that you’re crazy or emotionally disturbed, but I like to think I’m neither. I just don’t handle fear well, and my mind responds to it with sarcasm while my body reacts with laughter. Perhaps I am insane, and the detective will turn away from me in disgust. But, surprisingly, he pulls me toward him and forcefully crushes me against his chest. After a moment, his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.

“Moira,” he says softly, breathing into my hair. I’m close to shattering and his strong arms are the only thing holding me together.

When the initial shock subsides, I realize that this time there is no confusion as to what the detective is doing. I know without a doubt that it is a hug and possibly the third one I’ve had in my entire life. It’s an unusual feeling, and I rest against his chest awkwardly. The hysterical laughter has ceased, but my breathing is still ragged. I find myself burrowing my face in an attempt to absorb his scent and memorize it, despite the smell of smoke that clings to his clothes. He swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and then falling. He hasn’t shaved, so there is the hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. Before I know it, I’m trailing a finger down his chin and over his Adam’s apple to rest at the hollow of his neck.

“I’m glad you didn’t dismiss him,” I say quietly. “I didn’t have enough time to tell him anything else.”

He rests his cheek against my temple and sighs. “I shouldn’t have let Constable Bradford escort you back to the hotel.” His guilt bleeds into me. “I should have insisted that I escort you myself, or another constable.”

“But then I wouldn’t have found out that he killed Ginny and Rebekah.”

His body stills against mine. Oops, I had forgotten to mention that major detail, and I can sense his annoyance. I should have told him sooner, but I had been distracted with my determination to not let Constable Bradford get away. And then I had been confused by the detective’s behaviour. Warmth spreads from deep within my chest, bringing a tentative smile to my face. The detective believed
me
, not Constable Bradford. Perhaps I hadn’t imagined the change between us.

“How did you find that out?” he asks carefully, while still holding me against his body.

“He told me… or technically he
showed
me.”

He falls silent and I continue to breathe in his scent. I want to memorize the smell and the feel of his body against mine because I know he’ll eventually pull away. It will be a memory I will cherish, a beacon shining through the darkness of my mind. I don’t have many happy memories, but that fact doesn’t bother me. This memory will tide me over for a very long time.

“If you knew that he had killed Ginny and Rebekah, then why didn’t you use persuasion on him?” He begins to distractedly caress my hair.

“I
did
,” I say defensively. “He just kept hitting me afterwards.”

“Then why didn’t you just persuade him to leave?”

I scowl at his neck. “I don’t know,” I say heatedly. “I wasn’t thinking straight with the end of his revolver pointed at me, and I guess I thought I could handle him.”

He exhales loudly. “Dammit, Moira,” he says in an angry rush. “Promise me that you won’t be so arrogant if anything like that happens again.”

I begin to push away from him, annoyed. “I wasn’t being
arrogant
,” I retort, hating that he speaks the truth.

I
had
been arrogant. I thought that I could overpower Constable Bradford with my mind, and I definitely could have. I did use persuasion, but what I had failed to remember was that he was only bound to my persuasion and everything else was fair game. I had persuaded him to let me go, and he had released me. In that time, I was able to shoot him, but I had been naïve in thinking that I could kill him successfully with just one bullet. What I should have told him to do was leave, but I had been caught in the rush of adrenaline that was only concerned with the immediate danger of him choking me. I had underestimated Constable Bradford’s ability to recover from my persuasions.

“And there won’t be a
next
time,” I continue, feebly trying to escape his arms.

He crushes me back to his chest and whispers into my ear, “
Promise me
, Moira.”

“Fine!”

Should I bite him or hit him? God dammit why won’t he let me go? I continue to struggle against him, but his arms feel like iron bars wrapped around me. He won’t release me until I promise, and I can’t decide whether or not I’m annoyed with him or delighted to discover that he cares.

“Promise me,” he says again, his warm breath tickling my neck and sending a shiver down my spine. I hear a low moan and realize that the sound had escaped my parted lips.

“I promise,” I whisper, falling limp against his chest.

Surely there is a universal rule for the duration of a hug. Thirty seconds? Surely not more than a minute. If it were anyone else, I would have persuaded them to let me go. But I rather enjoy being in his arms, and I begin trailing a finger along the length of his neck. Does he enjoy my body against his? Is that the reason why he hasn’t released me by now? I suddenly wish I was in that clockwork mind of his.

I press my lips against his neck and whisper, “Thank you for believing me.”

His hand travels to the back of my neck and his thumb slowly caresses the skin in small spirals where it connects with my hair. “You’re welcome.” He then plants a tender kiss below my earlobe.

His lips move away too quickly, and I’m desperate to have them all over me. I need something—
anything
—to erase the memory of Constable Bradford’s hands on me. I suppose I could start drowning the memory away with cheap ale since visiting the memory house isn’t an option. But I’ve never been one to choose numbness as a means to forget. I’d rather replace the memory with something better—like the taste of the detective. Can he sense my desperation? And I can’t help but also wonder when I had become so eager to be close to this man. He’s suddenly handling me so delicately, as if I’m a fragile crystal figurine that will shatter if he squeezes too hard, and I want to know if that’s because he thinks I’m vulnerable now after what happened with Constable Bradford. His fingertips are lightly trailing across the nape of my neck, but he doesn’t move further. Is it from fear that he’ll upset me or is it because he now thinks I’m damaged and is no longer interested? If I were inside his mind, I could read his thoughts and find out if this time he’ll act on his desire. But he hasn’t invited me, so I don’t press. Instead, I plant another kiss on his neck and wait.

I feel his lips against my skin once more before they’re gone again. So, I plant another kiss and this time I let my tongue taste him, the mixture of salt and his smell sending a nervous flutter to the pit of my stomach. I think I hear his heart too, but it could be that my own is so loud that it echoes. His fingers have stopped caressing my neck and he doesn’t move. My embarrassment slowly creeps up to redden my cheeks and I realize that I was mistaken in his feelings. Perhaps his desire was a fleeting emotion that had already passed. I suddenly want him far away from me, and I’m about to push him away. But then his other hand trails down the length of my neck and down to my shoulder where the sleeve of my chemise falls down my arm. He kisses my shoulder, and, just when I might beg him to keep kissing me, he does. His tongue and lips slide against my skin, his warm breath sending an arousing shudder through my body, but then he stops abruptly as if uncertain. Damn, I had moaned again. This man has seen me in too many vulnerable situations. He continues, and I can sense that my moan has satisfied him. Now who’s arrogant, detective?