He recognized her for exactly what she was.

Dark and twisted. Broken on the inside. Like a mirror that had been busted, then pieced back together, cracks all along the surface. Sarah had those cracks, right beneath her skin.

Did she even realize the hell that was coming her way? Probably not. She thought she was the smart one. The woman who could figure out all the killers.

She’d never figure him out.

Tonight’s little visitor—that had just been the start of what he had planned. The true games were about to begin. Then he’d see just what Sarah knew . . .

But first, he had to start with the right prey. Someone who would catch Sarah’s attention. No, not just her attention, but the attention of the entire LOST group. Because Sarah just followed orders, and he needed her boss to order Sarah to stay in New Orleans.

Soon, Sarah would realize that she didn’t know killers nearly as well as she thought.

And I’m coming for you, Jax. Jax Fontaine. The name whispered in New Orleans like the man was supposed to be someone. You’re nothing. You’ve always been nothing.

Jax and Sarah were bound, linked, and they’d both be crashing and burning together.

It was almost perfect that Sarah and Jax had found each other.

Because it sure as hell made things easier for him.

He’d planned to take them out separately, but this—this was fucking fate. His justice. They’d come together, and it was his time.

His time to make them both pay.

SARAH LIKED DANGER. Jax had realized that fact when she laughed as he cut through the city on his motorcycle. She hadn’t even hesitated to jump on behind him.

Sarah Jacobs . . . such a mix of contradictions. She looked so controlled on the outside, all business, but then when you looked in her eyes . . .

I see the truth.

Fire. Passion. Her eyes burned for him.

He’d driven the motorcycle to one of his newest acquisitions, a house in the Quarter, not too far from the old La Laurie mansion. He headed past the main gate and parked his bike. Sarah didn’t climb off right away. Her body was pressed to his back, her hands wrapped around his stomach. He liked the way she held on to him—so tight. But he had a feeling he was going to like plenty of other things about Sarah, too.

She slowly let go and eased off the motorcycle. Sarah handed him the helmet and turned to look around.

He rose, too, and typed in a quick code to send the gate shutting behind them. He’d just started renovating the house, so it wasn’t much to see. Not yet. One day, though, it would be.

Sarah was staring up at the high stone wall that circled his property. Her gaze seemed centered on the broken bottles that were placed on the top of the wall.

She glanced back at him, her brows raised.

“It’s an old trick we use down here,” he explained to her. “If anyone tries to scale the wall, they either get cut or they knock the bottles over—and I hear them coming.”

She gave a little shake of her head. “I would have thought your security system would be all the protection you needed.”

“A man can never be too safe.” He turned and headed toward the house. But he didn’t hear the sound of her footsteps following him. Jax glanced back. She was still staring up at the broken bottles. “You haven’t changed your mind?” He was having trouble believing that she was actually there with him. Sarah. If the woman knew that she’d been starring in his fantasies every night since they’d met, she’d probably be trying to scale that wall, broken bottles or not. There was just something about her. The minute he’d seen her, she’d just . . . clicked for him.

“I haven’t.” Her voice was soft, but she’d finally started walking toward him. “I’ve been . . . here . . . in this area of town before. I didn’t realize you lived here.”

“I’ve got a few houses, scattered about.” He shrugged. “Sometimes, it’s a good thing to have more than one base for operations.” No, that wasn’t the truth. He liked to acquire things. It was a quirk—or an obsession. But when you grew up with nothing, well, you had a tendency to want everything.

He opened the door for her. A curving spiral staircase led upstairs. The staircase was one of the finished elements in the house. He fucking loved that staircase.

And I’d love fucking her on it.

“Why this place?”

He shut the door behind him. Secured the alarm system in the house. “I got a great deal on it.” He gave her a tight smile. “Not everyone wanted to be so close to the massacre house.”

She tensed.

“The La Laurie mansion,” he explained as he propped his shoulders against the door and studied her. “It’s just down the road a bit. Those haunted tours come this way several times a day, everyone so eager to get a glimpse of the place—and maybe see a ghost or two.”

She rubbed her arms. “Now I know why this house seems familiar.”

“Went on a tour, did you?”

Her dark eyes held his.

“Like you’d be afraid of a few ghosts.” And he stalked toward her. He just had to get closer. She was standing in front of those stairs and looking so beautiful that she made him ache. “I actually wonder . . . does anything scare you?”

Her hand curled around the banister. “The man and woman who used to live in that house—the ones who hurt all of those people—they scare me. Real-life people always scare me more than any ghost story . . . because I know just how evil we can be.”

We? He caught her hand. The sleeves of her coat came down to her wrists. He brought her left hand up to his mouth. “I don’t think you’re evil at all.”

“Maybe you just don’t know me that well.”

Damn, but he liked her.

He held her hand. Stared into her eyes. And thought about all the ways he wanted to have her. His hand slid around her wrist. He could feel her pulse racing right there and—

There was a long, thick line beneath his fingertips. Frowning now, he pushed back her coat sleeve as he stared at her wrist. There was a scar there, one that appeared to slice over the veins.

“I usually do a better job of keeping that covered,” Sarah said, voice soft. “Tonight, I just didn’t bother. I figured you’d be able to deal with me, scars and all.”

His index finger slid over that scar.

“If you use your dominant hand to make the first cut and that cut is too deep, then your other hand won’t be able to slice when the time comes.”

His gaze snapped back to her face.

“Just a lesson I learned.”

“You tried to kill yourself.” Fury pumped through him. Sarah—dead? No.

“I was a teenager, utterly scared out of my mind.” But then she shook her head. “It wasn’t the fear that did it, though. It was the guilt.”

He didn’t understand. “Sarah?”

“You know who I am.” She stepped closer to him. And her bittersweet smile made his chest ache. “Oh, not all the specifics, because few people know those sordid details, but you know my father—”

“—was a serial killer.” Yes, he knew that. Murphy Jacobs, a man convicted of murdering five people, though he’d been suspected in the deaths of at least a dozen more.

“You know and you don’t look at me like I’m a freak.”

“Because you’re not.” His finger slid over that scar again. They’d be coming back to that, later. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.”

The smile became less bittersweet. “If that’s the case, then why are we wasting time just talking? Couldn’t we be doing . . . other . . . things?”

Ah, so the sharing was over. For the moment. That was fine. He knew that he’d learn more about her soon enough. When it came to Sarah, he was learning that he had a rather insatiable curiosity. “You’re right,” he murmured.

Her lips parted.

“So come this way.” Then he turned and headed into the den. He made his way into the kitchen and found a bottle of wine. Chilled and rich, just what he thought she might enjoy. But when he turned back around, he found Sarah frowning at him.