GWEN PUSHED UPWARD against the wall, letting her coat puddle at her feet. Maybe it would have been better to remain still, but she intended to be prepared if he attacked. Even if she didn't stand a chance against him.
"Mr. Black," she said. "Dorian. It's me, Gwen." His lips curled, and she saw that his incisors were ever so slightly pointed. Like a wolf, she thought. Or a stalking tiger just before it tore out the throat of a hapless deer in some Far Eastern jungle.
For an instant she considered the possibility that she'd been looking for the killers in all the wrong places. Maybe the murders weren't the work of a group of lunatics. Maybe one man—a man sufficiently strong and clever and crazy—was responsible for the bloodbath.
But then she remembered the gentle arms around her, the face so full of remembered pain, and she knew her suspicions were worse than insane.
Dorian Black had been crippled by a terrible experience. He was troubled and sick, but he was no ...
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