“You’re a cruel woman, Blakely Vaughn.” His eyes squint with his grin. “But I can be patient.”

“Don’t you know anything about postponed gratification? The reward is always so much sweeter.”

An intense, knowing smile steals over his face. “I’m counting on it.”

Test

Alex

The sharp scrape of the blade across the granite block skitters down my spine. It’s an electric feeling, a tingling sensation, with every pass of the blade as I grind the hunting knife to a razor-thin edge. It’s also a brainless task. Necessary but tedious. Giving my mind the opportunity to wander.

To her.

Blakely’s fierce green eyes. Her sensuous mouth. That rare laugh that bursts free unexpectedly. Those sexy legs as she pushed me away…

It would be arrogant of me not to consider her a physical threat. She’s strong, has obviously dealt with unsavory types in her line of work, so I have no doubt she’s acquired the skills necessary to defend herself.

To wit, she has no apprehension about tonight’s task. She decided to crash an underground MMA fight with zero hesitancy. Her psychopathy dictates her fearless nature. She doesn’t experience fear the way most do. Rather, she observes it, as if it’s a secondhand emotion, only there to sharpen her senses.

I blow the debris off the knife. The four-inch steel doesn’t appear deadly—but the damage it can inflict is lethal. I flatten the blade against my forearm to test the edge. Shave off a layer of hair and dead skin cells. Just like that, so mindlessly, my DNA becomes a part of the room. Dead cells shed to make way for new growth.

How much of Blakely is dead?

Tonight, I test a theory.

Hypothesis 1: Faced with violence, Blakely will a) resort to violence herself, and b) will use me as an instrument for that violence.

Assessing the outcome will help me gauge her ability and the preparation I need to make.

I sink the hunting knife into the black leather holster and strap it to my ankle. A couple years ago, the thought of violence in any form would’ve made me cower. I was repulsed by the Neanderthals that demonstrated this kind of barbaric retaliation.

But…life has a way of testing us. Making us reevaluate our belief systems. I’ve embraced a primitive ideology that the strong devour the weak. Survival of the fittest. And any other cliché that fits.

A text from Blakely appears on my screen: Time to go. Meet me at the station.

I pocket both phones before I head toward the door. Tonight, I make a detour. Before I touch my twin sister’s picture, I pause at the armchair. I bring the pillow to my nose and inhale deeply. Blakely’s fragrance of sweet coconut milk and bergamot consumes my senses. I can taste her on my tongue as I leave my apartment.