Her lips tremble. I watch the fight move through her face. Panic. Confusion. Suspicion. A very reasonable concern, considering the strange, heavily tattooed man kneeling beside a corpse is ordering her to recite prime numbers.
Then she swallows. “Thr-Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.”
“Again.”
“Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.”
“Good.”
Her breath stutters, but it visibly slows. “It’s a therapy technique,” I explain, keeping my tone perfectly level. “Engages multiple cognitive domains. Speech. Memory. Sequencing. Attention. It gives your brain something to chew on besides terror.”
“Well, aren’t you helpful?”
“Thank you.” I tap my forehead in a mock salute. “I try to be, when a pretty girl is hyperventilating after stabbing an asshole to death.” Yeah, I couldn’t help it.
Her focus zeroes in on me. “Wow.”
“Too soon?”
She shrugs, inhaling deeply. “I’ve never had a man flirt with me over a dead body before.”
I chuff a soft laugh. “First time for everything.”
“Guess I’m pretty special.”
“Terrifyingly.” I wink. “Most women wait until the second date to involve me in a felony.”
She doesn’t quite smile. But the ghost of one drags itself across the floor and dies bravely. Progress.
She doesn’t flinch when I shift from her shoulder to touch her neck, feeling her thready pulse. She goes rigid under my touch. Her pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“There,” I say quietly. “Feel your breath calming. Your heartbeat slowing.” She nods, a tiny, jerky motion. “Count one more time.” I refrain from any vampire-related Sesame Street references.
Her lashes flutter closed. “Three. Fifty-nine. Seven. Eighty-three. Eleven.”
Her pulse is fast, but no longer trying to punch its way out of her chest.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
Her chin jerks up, and a strand of wet, black hair slaps her cheek. Wide-eyed. For the first time, pink spreads to her pale cheeks.
Well. That is highly educational.
I fight the smirk with the iron-clad discipline of a man who understands corpses are terrible aesthetics for flirtation. But damn. I found a tripwire. A praise kink. Wrong moment. Wrong woman. Wrong blood-soaked Chicago trail in the middle of a storm. Noted.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Jubilee.”
God. All the pet names I could think of. And I really shouldn’t. Jules. Fuck me. I really need to stop noticing things. Unfortunately, Jubilee makes that exceptionally difficult. The oversized hood, the soaked black hair, the smeared liner, the baggy clothes—none of it hides what she is trying to bury.
I can see the perfect harmony of symmetrical beauty beneath the grime. Soft oval face. Flawless skin. A mouth made to absolutely ruin concentration, her upper lip slightly fuller than the lower, hinting at a secret in every guarded expression.
She hasn’t made herself ugly. She just…doesn’t want to be seen. There is a difference. A very sad, very dangerous difference.
“Do you live close by?” I ask, pulling my hand back.
She blinks, like I’ve dragged her out of somewhere far away. She jerks and grapples for the knife. At least she doesn’t point it at me. Only clutches it to her chest. “Thr-three miles.”
