"Someone is knocking on the door," Evelyn said softly.
Connor barely heard it over the buzz of his tattoo machine, and since he was positive he didn't hear her correctly, he continued his task. After twelve hours with his back hunched over, his hands were getting tense and his shoulders were stiff. Evelyn had wanted this tattoo badly. It was something she had sketched out the week before, when she had stayed the day with Killian, and Connor couldn't deny her a thing.
Not even when his hand was still healing and hurting like a bitch, and he knew he should have asked her to wait. The pain was grand, anyway, like a feckin' gift to him. It reminded him he was doing better a week after falling into that trap again, that he was alive, and that he had the most beautiful creature under his hands.
Besides, no one else could tattoo Evelyn.
Not with her wee problem once the machine was turned on.
Connor didn't think he would be able to sit still and watch some other fecker—or even a woman, maybe—do something that Evelyn found pleasure in, especially when she then needed to ... find relief. He would probably kill somebody and he wouldn't even feel badly for it.
Why should he?
"Almost done the major outline," Connor said.
"I can tell. You're very low. Still there's—"
"You're going to need at least two to four weeks before we can sit again and start to color it in," Connor explained, "for healing and everything."
"Great."
Connor didn't miss the strange inflection in Evelyn's tone. "What's wrong, lass?"
"I'm sure the wings look fine, don't they?"
He sat back, fully admiring the outline of the wings and all their feathery details over her shoulders and half-way down her back. It was quite a piece—one that might take another artist and client four or even five sessions to complete. But with Connor's almost mindless focus, and Evelyn's high tolerance for pain, two sessions, or maybe three if some color bled, would do it.
"Looks classy on you, love," he answered honestly.
And sexy.
And crazy.
And wonderful.
He wondered, one day, would her skin be covered in art like his?
Connor liked that a lot.
These pieces were absolute art.
And so was her body.
It just fit.
"Great," Evelyn repeated, "but someone has been knocking on the door for ten minutes, and they're starting to get pretty persistent."
Finally, Connor's concentration on the task at hand was broken, and he heard the hard banging coming from the front of the brownstone. After the week he'd had, being able to get lost in tattooing had been a relief he couldn't pass up.
"Obviously, they're not going away," Connor said, referencing whoever was at his front door. He stood, letting his gloved hand slide up Evelyn's back with a gentle touch. Her shiver told him it probably still stung a bit, and her skin was a pretty pink all around the black lines. "You okay?"
"Perfect."
Connor pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Cover up, in case I have to invite them inside, love."
Evelyn nodded, already reaching for the top and brassier she had tossed aside earlier. Connor didn't bother to pack up his kit, figuring his uninvited guest had already been made to wait long enough. He only got a peek at the man waiting outside and he realized instantly why they had been so feckin' persistent.
Killian.
Connor opened the door, letting his friend step inside, before closing and locking it behind him. He didn't miss how Killian had looked over his shoulder before entering.
"Took you feckin' long enough," his friend muttered.
"I was busy."
"Riding that broad, I suspect."
Connor didn't even think about it, simply reacted. It wasn't a particularly hard punch, and he still had the latex gloves on, but it was strong enough that when it connected with Killian's jaw, the man's head snapped back a good three inches. Sometimes, a hit was a better warning than any sort of spoken word.
Killian flexed his jaw and rubbed the spot with his hands before passing Connor a wary glance. "My apologies."
"I'll accept it only because I didn't have to demand it."
"It's been a rough day."
Connor cocked a brow. "It better, otherwise you're just a cunt."
"Your arsehole father has been making his rounds. Said he showed up at my place first, but I wasn't home. He found me at the pub downtown making a pickup. Had a bunch of feckin' questions about you, and where you've been these last months. He was asking if you had any ladies around you lately, shite like that. Thought you might want to know."
Well, then ...
Connor pulled the latex gloves off and stuffed them in his pocket. "Is that all?"
"Basically. He gave me the indication I wasn't the first person he had spoken to."
Wonderful.
"Connor?" Evelyn called out from behind him. "Is something wrong?"
He passed her a look over his shoulder, seeing she was fully dressed again and seeming concerned over his conversation. "Everything is grand, love. Why don't you go make some tea?"
She nodded, and then gave Killian a hesitant smile.
He returned it, though not quite as wide. "Afternoon, Evelyn."
"Do you want some tea, too, Killian?"
"He's leaving," Connor said before his friend could answer.
"Oh. All right, then."
Killian didn't speak until Evelyn was gone from the hallway. "You need to handle your father."
"I'm aware."
"Soon."
"And then what?" Connor asked sharply. "Put a giant target on me arse because his feckin' bastards and the other gobshites he has working with him come after me?"
Killian sighed. "Then you'll have to take care of them, too. You know, when the time comes."
"Now you're walking a line I don't even want to talk about, Killian."
"It's better than leaving yourself open to future problems."
"It's also taking control of men and an organization I don't want," Connor half-snarled.
"Her or him," Killian said, turning to grab the doorknob and open the door. "That's what it really comes down to in the end, Connor. We know he's looking for her, though we might not know why just yet. But it's her or it's him. The rest is details. And details don't feckin' matter."
Killian was right.
Connor knew it.
His friend didn't say goodbye before he slammed the front door shut, but Connor didn't mind all that much. He had more pressing things to consider, given the state of his life and the life of the woman in his kitchen, currently making him feckin' tea like nothing was amiss in her world.
Connor took a few minutes to lean against the hallway wall and think about what he was going to do, or rather, what he needed to do and what it all might mean in the end. He scrubbed a hand down his face, letting out a heavy breath that felt like a huge pressure sitting on his chest. Before he could waffle on his choices for any longer, he pushed off the wall and headed toward the kitchen.
He found Evelyn sitting at the table, no tea ready or in hand.
He didn't mind, frankly.
She was flipping through the stack of her sketches, searching for something in particular and nothing would distract her from the task.
Connor headed to the kettle. Maybe a tea would distract him for their next conversation. "I'm going to head out pretty soon—I'll put some lotion on your back and wrap it first."
"Okay."
More papers flipped over.
Connor waited for the kettle to heat. "I might be a while. A few hours or so."
She didn't question him on the whys or whats of his sudden decision to leave the brownstone. "Fine."
"Tomorrow, we can hit the diner down the road for some breakfast." With Sean gone, he would have no need to hide Evelyn away, not anymore. "If you would like that, lass."
"Sure."
Connor turned to see she had finally found whatever sketch she had been looking for while he had been rambling on like a fool. He couldn't see exactly what it was, but she grew even more silent, her fingers tracing over the image with a careful slowness that said she was committing it to her memory all over again.
"Something wrong, Evelyn?"
Her back tensed. "I don't know."
"Pardon?"
"I'm not sure."
The electric kettle bubbled and clicked when the steam began to pop out the top, but Connor was already moving toward Evelyn, his desire for tea forgotten as she turned to look at him.
"I heard you talking," she said.
"With Killian, you mean."
"Yeah. About your ... dad."
Connor did his best not to scoff, and still managed to fail miserably. "Calling him that would lend some credence to the fact he might have acted like it over the years. It's like saying he deserves the title. He's just a feckin' cunt, and not good for very much of anything, least of all being a father."
Evelyn frowned, glancing back at the sketch. "Oh."
"What do you have there?"
She picked up the sketch, holding it close as her brow furrowed. "I thought ... I was confused, I think. I kept seeing your eyes and the top of your face, whenever I remembered him coming into my bedroom that night and taking me out of the house—how he didn't even blink when he stepped over my father's body on the floor. I couldn't forget what I could see of him, even if it wasn't very much of him at all."
Connor didn't have the first clue what she was rambling on about. "You're going to have to give me a bit more, love."
Evelyn tapped the back of the sketch with her fingernails. "I think maybe I confused him with you because I saw the similarities that night when you showed up and took me. You know, from—"
"The Russian."
Connor wasn't going to keep giving that fool the dignity of using his name.
"Yeah. All I saw at first was your eyes, just like him, because of that bandana you wore to cover your face. And then you pulled it down, and I saw you, but not at first."
"Evelyn, you're confusing me here."
She nodded. "Yeah, me too."
Connor reached out to take the sketch, though she hadn't offered it to him, but she didn't refuse to hand it over. He glanced quickly at the image, taking in what had to be one of her most frightening memories. A man looming over her bed, his face half-covered by a bandana of sorts, and his hands reaching for her. He couldn't see her, not entirely, but he could see her wee, child-like hands clenching into the blanket, as if it might keep her safe and secure.
He knew it hadn't.
Yet, it wasn't the major details or the story of the image that she had been talking about, he quickly realized. It was the parts of the man's face that she had drawn—his eyes, the shape of his cheekbones above the bandana, and even the way his brows knotted together.
It was like looking into a mirror.
It could have been him.
Except Connor knew it wasn't him at all. He was only a young lad when Evelyn had been stolen from her bed, but obviously, her memories had taken what she had seen, and what she knew, and made the picture.
He knew it then, without a doubt, Sean had done all of this. From the very beginning, to the very end, his father had his hand in Evelyn's past, her present, and he wanted her future, too. Connor didn't know why, exactly. Although the image of his mother, bound and dead on a bed wouldn't leave his mind, nor the many slaves and things he had witnessed as a child, and it was all beginning to make a very ... terrifying reality.
Connor handed the sketch back. "Breakfast tomorrow at a diner?"
He didn't want to worry her.
He didn't want to explain what was happening.
Evelyn let out a sigh. "Yeah, I'd like that."
"Let's get your back cleaned up before I need to leave."
• • •
By the time Connor had gotten his stuff together, and taken care of Evelyn's immediate needs, he didn't arrive in front of his father's Jersey home until nearly dinnertime. The house looked quiet from the outside, but it always did, and since Sean had added the attached garage a few years ago, he could no longer tell if the man was home by what car was in the driveway.
Connor got off his Harley, hung his helmet up, and headed for the front door. He had no plans of hiding the fact he was there, or what he planned to do to his father once he got inside. He had never been so blatant and uncaring about his presence or actions during a kill, but there was always a first time for everything.
He figured it was fitting that this first belonged to his father, considering everything.
Connor found the front door locked, but if Sean was up to something inside, that wouldn't be unusual. He no longer had a key for his childhood home, not that he had cared when his father demanded he hand it over years earlier.
He didn't need a feckin' key to get in, anyway.
Picking locks was kind of child's play for Connor, but he didn't even care to mess around with that today. He wanted Sean to know he was there, and exactly what he was going to do before he left.
Connor kicked the damn door in, watching the wood splinter under the force as it flew open and crashed into the wall. As quiet as the house had seemed from the outside, it was just as quiet inside. More so, actually.
No signs of life.
For a long while, Connor simply stood in the entryway, listening for anything that might give away the fact that someone was inside the house. Even his father's slave, as she was often locked inside, likely too afraid to run, should she ever be given the chance to do so.
He heard nothing.
Connor called out Sean's name, and then the girl's.
Nothing again.
Feck.
Sean had been gone that morning; Connor knew this only because of Killian, but that said nothing about why the man wasn't home now. His father had routines that he liked to keep no matter what, and he had been that way for as long as Connor could remember. Dinner was at five sharp, whether he ordered in, cooked it himself, or had one of his girls do the cooking. He rarely ate at restaurants, despite having owned several over the years, because he didn't trust someone to prepare food where he couldn't watch them.
His father should have been home.
Connor cursed under his breath, and then decided to go in search of something else, something that might end up confirming all of the things he had been suspicious of regarding Sean. The first place he went was to his father's office. The one place the man kept locked up tight whenever he wasn't in the home, and sometimes, even when he was, if he had people he distrusted inside the place.
Upstairs, Connor knew with absolute certainty that something was wrong.
The office was unlocked.
The door was wide open.
The desk was still as perfectly organized, each thing in its place as it had been for years, like nothing was amiss. As though the large leather chair behind it was simply waiting for Sean to sit his arse back down, and get to work.
The office should have been locked.
He's gone.
Connor ignored his inner voice and walked deeper into the office, going for the desk and the drawer that his father never left unlocked, even when he was sitting in his chair. The drawer where his father had brought out the picture of his mother holding him as a new baby. It didn't matter if it was locked, as Connor would simply break the feckin' thing open, but apparently, that would also be unneeded.
It, too, was unlocked.
He knew you were coming.
He knew you would do this.
He was waiting for you.
Connor continued to ignore the taunting voice in his head as he pulled open the drawer to find stacks upon stacks of folders. Some were labeled with strange titles, things like Before and others said After. Some had the word "Perfect" in big, bold letters, others were characteristic attributes, green eyes, dimples, too dark.
He grabbed every single folder he could and dropped them on the desk with a loud thump, opening the first few and flipping through what was inside. Pictures—so many feckin' pictures. Women of all sorts of ages, young teens, older ladies, and all in between. They varied in size, but almost all were petite, and very naked in the images. Blondes, strawberry-blondes, and even light brown hair. All with green eyes.
Only the ones with attributes like freckles, or similar shaped lips, and red tints in their hair seemed to get that perfect label.
Some of them, Connor recognized.
Women who had been in his home over the years. Girls who had tucked him into bed. Others that packed his lunch for school. One who had even made him something for Christmas, once.
He almost didn't open the After file, but his instincts acted before he could stop himself. It was the very same women, their attributes that made them perfect were on display in each shot, and others, full body, wrapped in rope and dead.
All of them were dead.
He counted the girls, knowing there might be more that Sean had never documented, and came to a total of seventeen.
Seventeen women.
Seventeen souls.
All similar in appearance, all ghosts, forgotten by the world.
All victims.
Connor flipped through the images again—the ones of the women alive—and couldn't help the realization settling deep into his gut, and making him sick at the thought.
All could have been Evelyn.
He had no doubt—none at all—that this was meant to be her fate. Perhaps she had just been too young as a wee lass when Sean had first taken her, and so he had put her somewhere where she could grow into his ... preferences. Perhaps he hadn't killed her that night he went after Declan, because Sean had seen his perfect victim in a younger form, and simply couldn't pass it up.
He looked like this man.
He had come from this man.
He was raised by this man.
This man was a monster.
Connor was only now realizing how different of a monster he was, when compared to his father. As much of a relief as he found in that understanding, he was also worried. Deeply, anxiously worried.
He flipped open the files that he had pushed aside to find the contents in those were not like the contents of the other two. These were older bits of information—older Polaroid photographs of terrible quality. There were several newspaper clippings that talked of another prostitute being found killed by strangulation, the perpetrator earning the nickname Strangler after having killed a half of a dozen street women.
Connor took note of the dates, noticing how after his father had begun purchasing and trading skin, the crimes of Strangler had lessened, though the police had not entirely stopped releasing information. Sean had continued to clip each piece written about his crimes, carefully documenting everything, including the victims he had killed after he stopped hunting the streets.
Serial killer ...
Monsters like Sean didn't hunt, just to forego their chosen victim if it seemed too difficult. They waited until time was right.
Connor continued flipping through the clippings and bits of information as he pulled out his cell phone. He needed to make a call because his heart was beginning to hurt from beating so fast and hard in his chest. He needed to hear her voice and know she was just fine, hidden and locked away in his brownstone. Far away from ... this.
Evelyn knew how to tell if it was a call coming in from his cell phone by the caller ID, and when she picked up on the fourth ring, Connor took his first real breath.
"Are you almost back home?" she asked, not even saying hello.
"Almost, love," he promised.
"Pizza might be nice tonight."
Connor chuckled. "You like pizza too much."
He would still get it for her.
He would get her anything.
Because he loved her. He wasn't sure when that had happened, or why. All he knew was that no one had ever made him feel quite the way Evelyn did when she was doing nothing more than sitting beside him. Like his whole body, every nerve ending, was connected to her without even needing to touch her. He wanted her to be happy. He figured, if that wasn't love, then what was?
Perhaps he had loved her since he was young lad, as so much of that one year he had spent befriending her had stuck with him for his entire life. It was no wonder, that after finding her again as a woman and him being a man, he found it easy to fall in love with her again.
She was different.
She was still the same.
Connor just hadn't imagined how to tell her. He thought the words—and Evelyn—deserved a bit more than to have the statement blurted out like it was just another thing. He'd never loved someone before, so he wasn't sure how to go about explaining the war it created inside his heart and mind. A constant battle of needing her close, wanting to see her smile, and hating anyone else who had the pleasure of having it graced on them.
He loved her.
"Do me a favor, lass?"
"Anything," Evelyn said quietly.
"Stay upstairs until I get home. Away from the windows. Everything is locked up tight, but ... just stay out of sight, be quiet."
He wasn't sure why he felt the need to request those things, but he let the words slip out just in case his instincts were acting up again. He shouldn't have left her at home, not alone. He should have sent her out for the day again, like he had before.
Connor just felt ... odd.
Something was off about this whole thing.
Where was Sean?
"I'll go work in the studio," Evelyn said, bringing him back to the conversation at hand.
"Grand. I'll be home in an hour or so."
Less, likely.
He was going to push his Harley to the feckin' limit to get back to her.
Connor didn't waste time once he had hung up the phone with Evelyn. He grabbed only a file's worth of information, a picture or two of his mother in the pile, and some other things he thought might help him get more information, should he need it. And then he was gone, not even bothering to shut the front door behind him as he left.
He had just swung his leg over his Harley when he noticed the dark sedan parked down the road. He probably wouldn't have given it much attention as the vehicle was turned off, and the windows were dark, but something had caught his eye. Just the last few inches of the window rolling up, and a man that had been staring in his direction.
Connor slipped on his helmet, and the Harley roared to life under his handling. He toyed with the throttle before kicking off the curb and heading toward the car. He slowed, coming to a complete stop beside the driver's window, reached over, and knocked with two knuckles.
The window rolled down.
A familiar face stared at him.
One of his father's underlining's.
"Where's Sean?" Connor asked.
The man shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, lad."
Connor knew he was lying, just by the way his gaze darted away when he spoke, but it certainly didn't help that the man had a turned on cell phone sitting in his lap. "All right, then."
He played with the throttle again, and reached inside his jacket with his other hand.
The fecker never even seen the knife coming. Blood painted the windshield red as Connor sliced across the man's throat with one, smooth cut. Careful to avoid the blood dripping down the fool's front, Connor reached in and grabbed the phone. A quick check confirmed what he believed—the last call was to his father's cell.
Connor hit redial, but Sean didn't pick up the first time.
He hit it again, hearing it ring and ring.
It took another two calls before Sean finally answered.
"I told you, you feckin' useless piece of shite—"
"Where are you?" Connor interrupted his father.
Sean didn't answer right away, but he did hear something crash in the background of the call. "Son."
"Where—"
"You're too late, lad. You've always been too late."
The call hung up.
Connor didn't realize his hand was shaking until he heard the phone crack from the pressure of his clenching fist. He dropped the offending device, a sickness beginning to well in his throat. He could practically taste the bile on the back of his tongue as he brought out his own phone and called the brownstone's line.
She was just there.
She had just answered.
He needed to be sure.
Evelyn didn't pick up the call.
Connor tried ten more times.
He already knew.
His body went numb.