In this scene from The Killing Moon, Dana Gray interrogates Cole Randall. Well, attempts to. This is the first time she’s seen him since she escaped from him six months ago.
Her hands lurched off her lap, across the table. And then she was touching him. His fingers were warm.
“You ran from me, beautiful,”he said, caressing her knuckles.
“You were trying to kill me.”
“No.”His gaze was intense. “Not anymore. Not after what happened. You and I are connected now, don’t you see?”
She snatched her hands back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”She wasn’t connected to him. She couldn’t be.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Dana. I think about you when I wake up. I think about you before I go to sleep. I–”
“Stop.”She didn’t need to hear this. She needed to get the topic back to the reason she came. She needed to take control here. That was what Cole always robbed her of. Control. If she could direct the conversation, maybe she could stay on top of her feelings–her very strange, very disturbing feelings. She squared her shoulders, sucking in a deep breath. “So, what did you want to say about the rogues? How could you help?”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t thinking about me too. I know–”
“The rogues.”
He sighed. “They’re connected. I’m surprised you didn’t see it. But maybe you weren’t looking.”
“Connected? They live in different states. They have nothing in common.”
He shook his head. “I know who they are.”
“Say you do. What does it matter? They’re going to be locked up for doing it on purpose no matter what.”
“Are you sure they did it on purpose?”
“They admitted that.”
“According to the news reports I saw, they admitted only that they knew how to control their wolves on a full moon.”
Dana sat back in her chair. “If they could control themselves, and they didn’t control themselves, then it means they did it on purpose.”
Cole raised his eyebrows. “Does it?”
“Don’t play games with me. You either know something, or you don’t.”
Cole’s voice dropped several octaves. “I needed to see you. I thought maybe you needed to see me too.”
She felt the words like lightning, coursing through her, making her feel weak, but also lit up, awake. She wished she was touching him again. She wished the table wasn’t between them. She wished there was nothing between them. Nothing at all.
Yes, I needed to see you. Yes, all I need is to see you. I need you, Cole. I need you. What have you done to me?
She held his gaze, and she was sure he could see her response written on her face. He drew in a long, slow breath, like he was savoring her, tasting her.
She couldn’t let this go on. She was supposed to be in control. Even talking about work, only work, he’d wormed his way inside, taken over. She had to stop it.
She got out of the chair. “So you’ve got nothing, in other words. You’re wasting my time.”Her voice was disdainful. Good.
Don’t notice how tightly you have me wrapped around your finger, Cole. Please, think I hate you. Believe I despise you.
“You did need to see me.”He wasn’t asking.
Oh, God, if she didn’t get out of here, she was going to lose it. That hypnotic voice of his was going to undo her. She didn’t know what she might do. She stalked to the door.
“Do you think about me, Dana?”
She looked at him, her blood starting to thrum just beneath the surface of her skin.
“I think about you constantly. I think about touching you again.”His voice was a purr, sweet, soft, and liquid.
“Shut up.”She choked on the word. She had to get away from him. She had to stop whatever spell he had on her. She tried to turn the knob on the door, but it was locked.
“You have incredible skin.”
She cringed, but something inside her loved that. Something inside her uncurled, stretched out, and preened. There was a part of her that craved his praise. She banged on the door.
“Think about that later tonight, when you’re lying in bed alone. Think about my fingers on your skin. My lips on your skin.”
“Brooks, damn it, open the door!”
The door opened. She threw herself out of the room.
“Dana,”called Cole. “Look for the connection. You’re going to feel so stupid to have missed it.”He was laughing. God, he was laughing, and the sound was echoing into her ears, recording itself.
She slammed the door on his laughter, and it cut off. “Fuck.”
She wanted–more than anything–to open the door again. Closing herself off from him felt like losing a limb.
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