Chapter 87 Unaccounted For
Violet
He studies me longer this time. Not a passing glance. Not a polite once-over.
A deliberate examination.
His eyes drag slowly from my heels to my shoulders, over the sharp cut of the blazer, the way the silk of the blouse catches the light. Then they move to my face, searching for something, fatigue, weakness, hesitation.
Not approving.
Measuring.
“You slept?” he asks, voice low, controlled.
“Yes.”
His gaze flicks past me down the hallway, landing on the security guard who is still standing near the foyer. Watching. Waiting.
When Rowan looks back at me, something in his expression has shifted.
“And you’re comfortable with your escort?” he asks, the word escort edged with something darker than it needs to be.
“Yes,” I reply evenly. “He seems capable.”
Something snaps behind his eyes.
He takes a single step closer.
“Do not,” he says quietly, dangerously, “smile at him like that again.”
My brows lift. “Like what?”
“Like he matters.”
The air tightens.
I feel it in my lungs.
“He’s doing his job,” I say coolly.
“And if he so much as looks at you like he thinks he has a chance,” Rowan continues, his voice dropping lower, “I will end his employment. Permanently.”
My heart stutters.
“Are you threatening to kill your own security staff because I said thank you?” I ask.
His jaw flexes.
“I will not come second,” Rowan says flatly, “to a man who doesn’t even know what you like.”
Something sharp and reckless sparks in me.
“Oh?” I ask, stepping closer instead of backing away. “And you do?”
His eyes darken.
In one swift movement, he closes the space between us, backing me into the wall of the hallway. Not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that there’s no misunderstanding.
His hand plants beside my head.
Caging.
“You want to test that?” he murmurs.
“Maybe,” I shoot back.
His lips curl slightly, not amused. Predatory.
“Your favorite color is dark purple,” he says quietly, his face inches from mine. “Not violet. Not the bright, loud shade people assume because of your name. The deep one. Almost black.”
My breath catches.
“You prefer seafood over chicken or steak. You hate salads because they never fill you up. You read when you can, but you haven’t had the time lately. You’re allergic to kiwi, which is why there’s a no-kiwi policy in every staff kitchen and break room under my name.”
My pulse starts hammering.
“You hate pickles,” he continues, voice steady, relentless. “But you’ll eat cucumbers if they’re thinly sliced. You hate tomatoes but you’ll use ketchup with fries unless they’re waffle cut. Then you prefer ranch.”
I stare at him.
“You’re insufferable,” I whisper.
His eyes flicker.
“And you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “are mine."
His hand slides to my waist, fingers curling just enough to anchor me in place.
“And that security guard?” Rowan’s voice drops further. “He saw your body. That’s all he saw. He thought with his dick."
“I know what you like,” he says.
Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine.
It isn’t soft.
It isn’t hesitant.
It’s claiming.
His hand tightens at my waist as his lips move over mine with deliberate possession. He doesn’t rush it. He doesn’t need to. The kiss is slow, consuming, like he’s proving something with every second he holds me there.
My back presses into the wall. His body closes the space in front of me. His thumb brushes along my hip as his mouth deepens the kiss just enough to steal my breath.
Heat floods through me despite myself.
Despite the hallway. Despite the fact that anyone could walk out and see this.
He pulls back just enough that our lips still brush when he speaks.
“Should I keep going?” he asks softly. His eyes are dark. Intense. “I know a lot about you.” His fingers tighten slightly. “Unlike that guard who thought he had a chance because you were polite.”
My chest rises and falls too fast.
“You’re insane,” I breathe.
“Probably,” he replies without shame.
Then he steps back.
Not retreating.
Just releasing me.
The space between us feels charged now, vibrating with everything we just didn’t say.
I straighten my blazer slowly.
“You don’t get to threaten people because I exist,” I say, though my voice lacks its usual bite.
“And you don’t get to pretend I don’t notice when someone wants you,” he replies calmly.
I swallow.
“You don’t own me.”
“Not yet,” he says, with certainty in his eyes.
A sharp knock cuts through the hallway.
Three firm raps against the front door.
Rowan’s entire body shifts instantly. The heat in his gaze cools into something precise. Controlled. Dangerous in a different way.
He steps back from me, jaw tightening.
I smooth my blazer quickly, refusing to let him think that kiss disarmed me.
“You’re not winning this argument just because you kiss well,” I mutter under my breath as he turns toward the foyer.
His mouth twitches faintly, but he says nothing.
He moves toward the door with long, purposeful strides. I follow him immediately. If something is happening, I am not being left out of it.
He reaches the door first and opens it without hesitation.
I nearly collide with his back when I stop short.
Internal Affairs.
Both in plain clothes. Both serious.
Reyes gives Rowan a tight nod. “Mr. Ashcroft.”
Rowan doesn’t move. Doesn’t invite them in.
“What is this about?” he asks coolly.
Monroe glances past him briefly—her eyes landing on me—then back to Rowan. “We need to come inside.”
Rowan hesitates.
It’s subtle.
A slight tightening of his shoulders. A pause that stretches just long enough to show he does not like anyone stepping into his territory uninvited.
Then he steps aside.
“Make it quick.”
They enter.
The moment they do, the house shifts. Devin appears from the kitchen like he’s been waiting for something exactly like this. Theo steps out behind him, Camille right at his side.
Everyone gathers in the foyer.
Rowan closes the door behind the investigators.
His voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it. “What is this about?”
Reyes exhales slowly.
“We terminated Detective Calder this morning,” he says. “Effective immediately."
“And you’re here because?” Rowan asks.
Reyes swallows once.
“We were preparing to take him into custody this morning.”
A beat.
“We issued the warrant.”
Another beat.
Monroe’s voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it.
“We can’t find him.”