The Pawn of the Phoenix (The Memory Collector Series Book 2) (12 page)

“Was this only a one-time thing?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his expression dead serious. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Moira. I asked you a question, so answer it.” The intensity of his gaze demands me to answer truthfully. “Do you intend to see Mr. Hayes again?”

I could lie, or I could reply with a sardonic remark. Both would undoubtedly push him further away out of my reach. And after this morning, I’m desperate to keep him within my grasp. There’s a possibility I could get hurt, but that likelihood has always been present the moment I began to have feelings for Keenan. But if we go further, the pain will be much worse. Am I willing to take the chance? I look up into the sea of green that had captivated me the moment we first met and tentatively touch the side of his face. He would definitely be worth it.

I offer him the truth and hope it doesn’t cut me open. “Not if I can have you.”

“Good,” he says quietly, instantly relaxing. The pad of his thumb softly strokes my lips. “Because I’m not the type who shares. If I’m going to have you, then I want all of you. That has to be something you’re willing to give me.”

My initial reaction to his words is fear. I don’t even know if I’m capable of giving him what he wants, but I’m desperate to try. It’s an entirely different form of submission than the one every other person has demanded of me, but his words promise me his own surrender in return.

He kisses my lips softly. “Is that something you’re willing to do, Moira?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

The moment the word has left me, Keenan presses his lips against mine. His tongue slips into my mouth, and his mental barrier crumbles away. He’s willingly allowing me into his mind, and I eagerly step into the clock. The soothing tick, tock fills my thoughts, brushing away my anxieties. The gears and cogs turn sluggishly with his content, unlike the whirring of his usual mental activity. I trail my fingers along a gear, and Keenan moans against my lips. The sensation is even more intimate with our bodies entwined, and he relaxes beside me. I continue farther into the clock, relishing in his pleasure. It’s the most he’s ever allowed me to explore, and soon I’m wandering down a hall. Steam rolls from the metal floor beneath me, creeping between the cracks to caress my skin. The back of my neck beads with perspiration, and my eyes flicker to the line of doors on each side of me.

I imagine each door contains specific memories, and I smile. It figures his mind would be so efficient and organized, rather than like the chaotic landscape of Evan’s mind. When I had entered the dream weaver’s mind, there had been several objects strewn across the meadow. I’m actually surprised by Keenan’s construction, because I usually only see such a landscape in a blocker’s mind. I’m desperate to know what lies on the other side of each door, but touching them would only bring his attention to them. So I continue, simply content to look. I love his mind and could spend hours just listening to the gears whir.

One of the farthest doors happens to catch my attention, and my heart thunders wildly. There’s an empath’s insignia carved into the wood—a sign someone has tampered with his mind. Thankfully, it’s not the Phoenix’s. Instead, it sort of looks like someone’s initials. Yet that still doesn’t calm the anxiety that settles in the pit of my stomach. The outline isn’t on fire, so I assume there is no persuasion involved. But the fact there’s a mark at all means an empath has meddled with his memories, because only a memory blocker imprints an insignia on a client’s mind. I’m simultaneously intrigued and terrified to know what memories are locked behind this door. What was so painful in your past you had an empath block it, Keenan?

“Is something wrong?” he asks, noticing me still beside him.

I retreat from his mind, and my gaze focuses on his. “Not at all.”

His eyes narrow, and I pull him closer to cover up the fact my heart is pounding loudly in my ears. I try to suppress my inquisitiveness, because there’s no way I can possibly ask him what might be concealed behind those doors. We lie in his bed for a while before we dress for the day. He ties my corset for me, and for some reason it’s more erotic than when he took it off.

The moment we head downstairs, Mrs. Whitmore has already set up breakfast in the dining room. She eyes us curiously, her mind offering her thoughts to me without resistance. She knows we had spent the night together, and she doesn’t approve at all, her lips pressing into a firm line before she leaves. Keenan and I eat in companionable silence. Once in a while I feel his eyes on me, so I glance up and smile at him. His light-green eyes narrow fractionally in suspicion before his lips quirk with amusement, and though I catch a glimpse of his dimple each time, the gesture never reaches his eyes. He knows something is on my mind, and my silence is frustrating.

When we finish eating, he pulls me into his arms and leisurely kisses me. He tastes delicious and feels so right, and I melt in his grasp. We’ve now kissed several times today, and I have to admit I’m enjoying our new arrangement. The sound of me sighing against his lips satisfies him, and I press into his mind to find out why and am immediately surprised by the answer.

I stare up into his eyes. “I don’t regret any of it, and I meant what I said earlier.”

He inhales deeply, and his annoyance bleeds into me. “We’re going to have to settle on some rules.”

“I don’t think I like the sound of that. I’ve never been good at rules. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I’m quite disobedient.”

He smirks and continues. “I understand you cannot help but sense my emotions. But my thoughts are off limits, unless I have invited you into my mind. Do we understand one another, Moira?”

I grin. “Yes. Anything else?”

“Our relationship doesn’t interfere with the investigation.”

“Our
relationship
?” I echo, surprised.

“Precisely,” he continues. “And you will not use seduction as a means to acquire information from anyone.”

My heart flutters wildly. “I can agree to that as long as I’m permitted to use my powers of seduction on you.”

“Of course, and I’m glad you find my rules so agreeable. Is there anything you would like to request?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly nervous. “I’m not your concubine.”

“I assure you that was never my intent.”

My anxiety vanishes, and I smile. “I believe you, but that’s not what I meant. I’m not your concubine, so I don’t want to be treated as such. My rule is I sleep with you in your bedroom.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Whitmore enters the dining room. Her eyes widen at the sight of us embracing, and Keenan casually releases me. She mumbles something under her breath and busies herself with clearing the table. Keenan and I head out into the foyer to escape her not-so-subtle glares. Before we leave the house, I rush upstairs to grab something from my room. I had promised I would never enter his mind uninvited, but I never vowed to suppress my curiosity or my attempts to delve into his past. Besides, it’s not like he has any intention of leaving my past behind. I figure the Chief would most likely know who Celeste is since he’s known Keenan for ten years, so I slip her photograph into my pocket.

Keenan regards me suspiciously when I accompany him in the foyer, but doesn’t ask any questions. He opens my jacket, and slips it on for me. Once my arms are through, he leans forward so I feel his heat on my back. His lips move close to my ear, and his breath tickles my neck.

“I look forward to our new sleeping arrangements,” he says quietly.

A shiver courses through me, and I instinctively turn my face toward him. My cheek brushes against his, and he leans closer. Mrs. Whitmore appears in the hallway, and her sharp inhale startles both of us. Keenan pulls away and clears his throat, while I smile sweetly at the housekeeper. We leave the house and drive down Churchill Road to the police station. We’re quiet during the ride there, but it’s not an awkward silence. It’s the sort of quiet between two people who are content to simply be in each other’s company.

When we enter the station, Rick calls for our attention. He begins asking the detective for a day when we can visit him and his fiancée, and I decide to take this opportunity to speak with the Chief while they sort out the details. I casually inform Keenan I’ll wait for him in the Chief’s office before slipping away from him so he can’t stop me. The Chief’s eyes widen in shock when I enter his office alone, and he stares at me in a perplexed moment.

“Where’s Keenan?”

“Speaking with Rick.” I sit down in the chair across from his desk. “I needed to speak to you alone—without the detective.”

He frowns and fidgets with his red whiskers. “What is it?”

I remove the photograph from my pocket and place it gently on his desk. The moment his eyes fall on the picture, his heart rate escalates and beads of sweat gather on his forehead. He knows who the woman is, and his mind immediately focuses on the door with concern and fear. Before I entered his office, I was already dreading the answer to my question. But the Chief’s reaction makes my stomach churn with a mixture of suspicion and alarm.

“Who is the woman in the photo?”

The Chief’s eyes dart back to my face. “Has Keenan seen this?”

“No.”

“Good,” he mutters. He swallows and wipes the sweat off his forehead. “I don’t know if it’ll do anything, but I suggest you keep that picture far from Keenan’s grasp.” Before I can ask why, he narrows his eyes. “Where did you find that picture?”

“In his study.”

His eyes widen in absolute shock. “You can’t be serious.” He swears and mumbles under his breath, “Christ, Keenan, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Chief,” I say sternly, forcing his attention back to the question at hand. “Who is she?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, waving his hand at me. “I’ll answer, but please put that picture away before Keenan sees it.”

I obey, returning it to my pocket, and then look up at him expectantly. Before he speaks, bile rises to the base of my throat, and I honestly think I might be sick. I’ve somehow known all this time she’s connected to that door in Keenan’s mind. One of his secrets will finally be revealed, and I suddenly don’t want to hear it. But before I can stop the Chief, the truth rushes out and slashes a deep wound in my chest.

“She was Keenan’s wife.”

“No,” I breathe, but the Chief doesn’t hear me.

“Her name was Celeste,” he continues, unaware of my heart breaking. “She died four years ago—murdered, to be precise.” He pauses and glances at the door nervously. “She had been the Hangman’s last victim before Keenan had finally caught the bastard.”

My eyes sting from the unexpected news, and I fight back the tears. I want him to stop, but I can’t speak. I don’t even know if I’m still breathing.

The Chief sighs. “It tore Keenan apart. After getting married, they had tried for a year and a half to conceive before she finally became pregnant. When the Hangman caught her, Keenan lost both his wife and his unborn child. You can’t say anything of this to him, Moira. He had the memories of his marriage blocked.”

He mistakes my horrified expression for disapproval and quickly adds, “You have to understand that their deaths devastated him. He became depressed. He wouldn’t go out or eat. When he started visiting the opium dens, I tried to intervene. Eventually, I got through to him and he chose to visit the memory house. The only way he believed he could continue to live was to forget.”

I can’t say I blame him, because I don’t know what I would have done in his situation. To lose something so precious would tear anyone open.

The Hangman wasn’t a merciful killer—if such a person even exists. He would kill his victims pitilessly, and I have no doubt he had left Celeste where Keenan would find her. But as much as someone wants to forget, a part of them still holds on to the past. It’s the reason Keenan had kept the photograph hidden in his study. Because no matter how painful the memory of his wife and child was, he still couldn’t bring himself to let go of them completely.

I remember something Rick said to me yesterday. “Celeste was the Hangman’s last victim?” The Chief nods, and a bit of bile rises to my throat once more. “She was Mr. Harrison’s niece, wasn’t she?”

He nods once again. “Keenan only remembers Celeste as Mr. Harrison’s deceased niece and the Hangman’s last victim. The memory blocker had only blocked any memories that pertained to their proposal and marriage. They kept the early memories of their courtship so his mind didn’t experience too great of a shock and resist.”

“Then why are you afraid of him seeing the picture if he still has memories of her?”

“The memory blockers told him to get rid of anything that would remind him of her. He’s my best detective and also a friend. I just don’t want to chance anything that might set him back to the state he was in before.”

This explains why Keenan had been baffled when I mentioned Celeste as one of his ex-lovers. He only recalls a brief courtship between them where one of them quickly broke it off. Most likely it was Celeste, because it would be more difficult to alter Keenan’s feelings toward the woman. It’s not like the memory blockers could just convince him he had felt apathetic toward her. But if they suggested Celeste had been the indifferent one, then Keenan’s mind would have an easier time accepting the false memory, while still allowing him to grieve for his loss. It also explains why his townhouse is so bare, and why he’s only lived there for the past four years. He had to leave the house where he and Celeste had made a home.

A picture wouldn’t be enough to trigger any of his blocked memories, especially since she wasn’t completely erased from his mind. But, like the Chief, I wouldn’t want to chance it either. If the door to those blocked memories were to ever open, Keenan would be greatly traumatized. To lose something once is devastating; to lose something twice is soul shattering.

I
t’s extremely
difficult to look someone in the eyes when you have a secret, especially if it belongs to them and they’re unaware of its existence. When evening falls, Keenan requests my presence in his study. As we review his notes on the Phoenix case, my mind continues to roam back to my discussion with the Chief. Words I’d rather not think about float to the forefront of my mind: wife, child, murder, and opium den. The terms circle around until I’m no longer capable of focusing on the Phoenix case. Keenan’s eyes fall on me once again, but this time they are filled with concern. I’m spared any sort of explanation when Mrs. Whitmore knocks on the door.

She enters upon request. “A letter has arrived for Moira, sir.”

I accept the envelope and wait for her to leave the room. When she doesn’t, I turn to face her, and she gives Mr. Edwards an apologetic look. “The carrier has been ordered to wait for a reply.”

My gaze immediately falls on Keenan. I can tell by the look in his eyes he knows who the letter is from. He leans back in his chair, his expression remaining calm. I, on the other hand, feel extremely anxious. My eyes flicker down to the letter in my hand, and I reluctantly open it. I wish I were alone, but to walk out would send Keenan the wrong message. Though I have assured him I have no intention of seeing Mr. Hayes again, he still has his doubts, and I plan to eradicate them. My eyes scan the letter, and my anxiety rises with each word.

D
ear Moira
,

I
hope
you will join me this evening. I have missed you these past few days, and I promise to make your journey worth it. I trust Detective Edwards will have no objections in allowing you the evening to enjoy yourself. My carrier has been instructed to wait for a reply and drive you here. I beg you to not keep me waiting too long, my love.

S
incerely
,

Icarus

W
hen I glance up
, I find Keenan regarding me with that stern expression of his. He wants to know what the letter says, and how I feel about the sender. Instead of writing a letter in return, I voice my response out loud. This way, Keenan will hear and his doubts will hopefully disappear.

“Mrs. Whitmore, please inform the gentleman I kindly refuse his master’s invitation and I won’t be needing his services tonight or any other evening in the future.”

The housekeeper quickly conceals her emotions and exits the room. My heart is thudding frantically and guilt creeps up my spine. I suddenly feel like I owe Mr. Hayes an explanation and that my verbal refusal had been harsh. Will my rejection upset him? Or will he simply shrug it off as part of the inevitable and move onto another beautiful woman? Maybe I should write him a letter when I have a moment to myself.

Keenan’s satisfaction slithers toward me, and his eyes seem brighter than before. But he doesn’t comment on the letter or my response. Instead, he continues discussing the case, as if we were never interrupted in the first place.

“We don’t have any leads, other than speculations.” He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “Have you thought about having a blocker search your mind?”

I suppress the urge to squirm in my seat. “I haven’t had much time to think about it, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

He tries to hide his impatience behind that cool exterior of his, but the emotion still manages to trickle in my direction. “Moira, we don’t have the luxury of time. The Phoenix can strike at any moment.”

“I’m aware of that, but I still need time.”

I stand and walk around his desk. He follows my progress with suspicion, but beneath his attention also lies desire. The two emotions are vastly different from one another, but somehow they’re never far apart in my experience. He recently said he trusted me, and I can see he believes that. But being an empath allows me to see the things people hide from others as well as themselves. Trust, like love, is one of those slippery emotions. Just when you think you have it in your grasp, something happens and your fingers quickly lose purchase.

My blood pools to my head as I reach behind him to rest my hands on his shoulders. His muscles automatically tense beneath my touch, and my heart pounds faster from his reaction. The fear of rejection mingles with my desire, but I refuse to withdraw unless he requests it. Something had changed for the better this morning, but in many ways, they’ve also stayed the same. We’re both still a little hesitant, too unsure of how to approach one another. Slowly, I knead his shoulders, my fingers coaxing out the tension in his muscles.

He sighs and immediately relaxes. “If you’re trying to distract me, I should inform you it won’t work.”

I lean close to his ear and whisper, “Is that a challenge?”

“Moira.”

I smile when he doesn’t even try to pull away. My lips tease his neck with soft kisses, and I inhale his scent. The usual smell of cigarette smoke that clings to him isn’t present, and I wonder if he purposely abstained from smoking recently, knowing I dislike the odour. The idea brings another smile to my face. My hand leaves his shoulder to creep down his chest, my fingers skimming over the buttons of his shirt, but he quickly snatches my wrist before I reach anywhere interesting.

His grip is gentle, but firm. “You promised our relationship wouldn’t interfere with the investigation.”

“It’s not,” I say. “You said it yourself we have no current leads. There’s nothing we can do at the moment, so why not enjoy each other’s company?”

He pulls on my wrist, forcing me to stand in front of him. The intensity in his stare unsettles me, yet he still hasn’t rejected me. So before I can doubt myself, I lift my hands and brush my fingers through his short brown hair. He tugs on my skirt, pulling me closer, and his desire wraps around me in a delicious embrace. I desperately want to kiss him, but instead, I step out of his reach. His immediate puzzlement pulls the corners of my mouth upwards.

“Care to join me upstairs, Mr. Edwards?”

Wordlessly, he stands and follows me out of his study. A part of me is grateful Mrs. Whitmore doesn’t see us climb the stairs together. She would undoubtedly mumble something about propriety, and I’m not sure how Keenan would react. I still don’t know how he feels about us, whether or not he wants others to know. When we reach his bedroom, he unlocks the door and steps aside.

“After you, Moira.”

His eyes glimmer with a carefully restrained emotion I can’t quite decipher beneath his desire. Mischief, perhaps? I step into the room and hear the door close behind me. I’m about to turn around when Keenan’s arms wrap around me from behind. He leans forward, his nose trailing against my neck as he inhales. The slight touch, along with his breath, sends a shiver through my body, and my eyes automatically close as I lean into him. I want him just as badly as this morning—maybe even more so. His lips brush against my skin, his tongue teasing me every so often. I moan and turn to face him. I’m not sure why, but at that moment, my mind decides to taunt me with an image of Celeste. His love for her must have been profound, and instead of jealousy, I’m suddenly gripped with sympathy.

Keenan’s brows narrow as his eyes search mine. “Is there something wrong?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him into a kiss and hope he didn’t see the sadness in my eyes. His tongue slides against mine, and I tighten my embrace and deepen the kiss. At first, he’s surprised, mistaking my behaviour for enthusiasm. But then he grips me tighter, and I can sense his own desperation mixed with his eagerness. This time, it’s me who fumbles with unbuttoning his shirt. He saves me from further embarrassment by removing his shirt and then moving to mine. My skirt falls away next, and he moves to stand behind me once more. His fingers slowly untie my corset before it, too, falls to the floor. My lips part on a soft exhale as his hands slide up my hips, lifting the thin fabric of my chemise slightly. He turns me, and my body responds to the heavy look of lust in his eyes.

Our lips meet again, and each time he exhales, I inhale. It’s as if the only way we can breathe is through one another. His scent swirls intoxicatingly around me, and my head swims in a dizzy haze. My control slips further away from me, but I don’t mind. I offer it to him willingly and with no regret. He seizes it with relish, lifting my chemise over my head, and then guides me backwards to the bed.

My head is too much in a daze, and I don’t notice when he removes the rest of his clothing before lying on top of me. He slides between my thighs and presses his erection against my wetness. Grabbing my wrists, he pins them above my head, effectively restraining me beneath him. My back automatically arches when he lowers his head and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, and I writhe beneath him, rocking my pelvis against him.

When he kisses me, his movements are slow and deliberate as his mind opens up to me. I suddenly find myself amongst the gears in his mind, and I affectionately trail my fingers along the machinery. He moans, his fingers entwining with mine, as the tip of his erection slides toward my opening. Through my pleasure, the rational side of me slithers forth to whisper a very unpleasant—and important—reminder. We’re not using a contraceptive, and I can’t risk getting pregnant. My body tenses beneath him in alarm, while my hand stills on the gear I had been caressing.

In that moment, my mind also decides to remind me of Celeste. The memory of the Chief informing me that Celeste had been with child when she had died floats to the surface, and I immediately snatch my hand away, pressing it close to my chest. In my panicked state, I can’t tell whether or not I projected the memory onto Keenan’s mind. He pulls away and stares down at me, his brows pinching close together as his mind closes once more.

Before he can speak, I rush to fill the silence with anxious words. “I have to get my contraceptive from my room. It won’t take long. We don’t want to risk getting pregnant, now do we?”

He sits up, and I quickly slip on my chemise before heading out of the room. It doesn’t take me long before I’m rushing back, eager to resume where we had left off. Yet the moment I enter the room, I find Keenan slipping on his pants. My heart immediately plummets to my gut, knowing the moment has passed.

“Why are you dressing?” I cringe at the desperation in my voice.

He doesn’t even glance up at me as he reaches for his shirt. “Mrs. Whitmore informed me the Chief has called, requesting my presence at the station.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Moira.” He finally looks up as he approaches me. “We’ll have to continue this later.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, as my mind tries to keep up with the sudden change. “Help me dress, and I’ll come with you.”

“I was requested to come alone.” He pauses, his gaze flickering from my hazel eye to my blue one. “I won’t be long.”

Though he’s careful to keep his exterior calm, I can tell he’s hiding something. It almost feels like a lie, but why would he want to leave at a moment like this? We stare at one another silently before he slowly—almost hesitantly—plants a soft kiss on my lips. Then, without another word, he exits the room, leaving me alone and perplexed.

He’s grown tired of you already.

I’m reminded of the words Jonathan had said to me at Mr. Hayes’s estate, suggesting a whore can’t maintain a man’s interest long. I scowl and convince myself that is not the case with Keenan. The Chief simply needed to speak to him alone, and his quick departure has nothing to do with me.

Instead of dressing, I decide to take a bath. The water doesn’t provide me with its usual comfort, and my mind keeps replaying the way Keenan had looked at me before he left. After a while, I exit the bathroom, wearing only my chemise. When I enter my room, I pull out the book of poetry I had borrowed from the detective. I read several poems in an attempt to occupy myself, but the melancholic ruminations of the poets only fill my head with more muddled thoughts. At some point, I abandon the book and stare at Celeste’s picture. What sort of woman was she? Was she poised like Madame Josephine, or was she timid like Christine, Rick’s fiancée? Her heart-shaped face taunts me with its perfection, and I quickly return the photograph inside my drawer.

Hours pass by, and I become restless. I leave the confines of my room and search for Mrs. Whitmore. When I ask her if she’s heard anything from Keenan, she informs me she has not. I then ask her if the Chief had called earlier, and she confirms my suspicions. Keenan lied. There was never any call, and I wonder if he lied about his destination as well. I decide to phone the station to see, and Constable Smith’s deep voice greets me.

“Is Detective Edwards there?” I ask.

“He was, but he left an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.” Silence falls before he continues. “He did seem rather upset though. He came in demanding access to old files, and then left shortly after.”

I clutch the phone tighter. “Which files did he examine?”

“One moment,” he says, and I hear rustling on the other end. “Ah, here we go. He pulled out the Hangman’s case. The last file he was examining before he left was Celeste Harrison’s, the Hangman’s last victim.”

“No,” I breathe.

“Is everything alright, Moira?”

I hastily mumble a goodbye and hang up. Blood pools to my head as my panic elevates, and I hurriedly phone the Chief’s home. His housekeeper answers, and I demand her to fetch the Chief, insisting it’s an emergency. There’s a possibility I’m overreacting, but a part of me knows I’ve made a fatal error. Not only did I mention Celeste this morning as his ex-lover, but I also accidentally projected a memory when I was in Keenan’s mind. I know it now. He saw the memory of the Chief telling me that Celeste was pregnant when she had died, and it propelled his curiosity. Since that fact was part of the memories the blockers had locked behind the door in Keenan’s mind, he sought the records from the investigation. I have no doubt the file mentions Celeste had been pregnant, and I wonder if it’s enough to trigger any other memories.