CHAPTER 55
If he told me to beg, I might.
And he must know. He feels it in me—because he smiles against my skin, stilling my hips with a grounding hand.
I hadn’t even realized I was moving.
“Soon, baby,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
His lips move to my jaw, then my collarbone with a soft nip.
“So soon.”
Then the strap behind my head loosens. The gag slips out—wet, and warm, my cheeks sore.
I breathe. Lick my lips and swallow.
The silence tastes strange.
I brace for his mouth on mine.
But I can’t do it.
I lock my lips, turning my head. My body tenses—but he doesn’t kiss me.
I’m scared of it.
But I’m also disappointed.
Instead, he slides into bed beside me, pulling the covers up. Wrapping me in them like a shield, not a trap.
“If you keep the blindfold on,” he says softly, “I’ll stay.”
I don’t speak. Don’t move. But I don’t lift it.
He settles behind me—solid, warm.
His arms curl around me, and I melt into him like gravity’s pulling me there.
His leg covers mine. One hand rubs circles into my back.
My breath releases.
My body relaxes.
He kisses the top of my head. “That’s it, baby.”
And then I break.
It starts quiet—a tremble in my breath.
Then the sobs hit.
Raw. Sudden.
Like they’ve waited at the edge of everything we just did.
I cry into him—clutching his hoodie, burying my face in his scent.
Strong. Warm. Unapologetic.
I just need him to hold me.
And he does.
He rubs my back, whispers into my hair, holds me until my body gives out—until exhaustion pulls me under.
Until I sleep, knowing I’ll pay for this later.
Mornings are bullshit.
I'm halfway through my shitty black coffee, cursing at a slow-moving Prius, when I hit Call.
The phone rings twice before she answers, breathless and suspicious.
"What?" Paty huffs, like I just interrupted her robbing a bank.
She's hyper. Probably running around like a caffeinated squirrel.
"Coffee order," I grunt, steering around some idiot who doesn't know how to merge.
There's a beat of silence—like she's trying to pretend she is not vibrating through the ceiling.
"I'm good," she says, too fast. "I'll get my own."
Bullshit.
I let the silence stretch.
She caves with a groan loud enough to rattle the speaker.
"Fine. Triple-shot iced Americano with light oat milk, one pump toasted vanilla, one pump brown sugar, shaken over ice, topped with cold foam and a dash of cinnamon. Happy?"
"Thrilled," I mutter, and hang up before she can make it worse.
Ten minutes later, I step into the precinct, two coffees in hand, fully ready to punch someone if they even look at me sideways.
I find her exactly where I expected—deep in a manic storm.
I don't say a word. I just set the drinks down.
Mine, basic and black. Hers, pure fucking diabetes in a cup... with a pink straw. Obviously.
She doesn’t even look up.
One hand snatches her drink blindly while the other waves toward the mess of boards and papers.
She's talking a mile a minute, darting between crime scene photos, spreadsheets, and a map full of color-coded thumbtacks like she cracked the Da Vinci Code before breakfast.
The caffeine hits her system before she’s even swallowed her first sip. I can practically see her vibrate at a higher frequency.
Meanwhile, I sip my black coffee like it’s the only thing keeping me from jumping out a window.
Paty’s mouth runs faster than her brain.
"Okay, okay, listen—phantom LLCs, empty leases, right? But they all use the same accounting firm. And that firm"—she stabs the air with her straw, narrowly missing her eye—"shows up on three closed trafficking cases."
I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching.
The hurricane’s already made landfall. All I can do is survive it.
She finally stops, chest heaving, cheeks pink, waiting for me to shoot her down.
"All right." I take another sip. "Let’s check it out."
Paty blinks at me like I just sprouted another head.
"Wait. Seriously? That easy?"
"If it’ll shut you up for five minutes," I grunt, pushing off the doorframe, "I'll follow the goddamn string theory to Mars."
She laughs—bright, startled—and grabs her files, her tote bag, and her absurdly complicated coffee.
I don’t think she’s ever laughed at something I’ve said. Not like that.
As she scurries after me in her too-high heels, I hear the inevitable stumble behind me.
I don’t even glance back. Just shake my head.
"Fucking menace."
And the worst part?
I’m smiling when I say it.
The day starts like every other good idea I’ve ever had—bad coffee, bad traffic, bad instincts about what’s waiting for me.
Paty's buzzing in the passenger seat like someone mainlined espresso straight into her carotid. She’s half talking to herself, half talking to me, and somehow carrying three conversations I’m not invited to.
First stop: a juice bar in Crown Heights.
The place is clean. Too clean. Like it’s been staged for an Instagram photoshoot that never ends.
Paty bounds out, clipboard in hand, bright and chipper, like we’re here for a bake sale.
Meanwhile, I’m dragging behind her like the Grim Reaper’s unpaid intern.
We do a walk-by, ask a question or two.
The books are squeaky. Staff’s clueless or high on cold-pressed enlightenment.
Not worth flipping.
Back in the car, Paty’s tapping her pen against her knee like a telegraph machine.
Second stop: wellness spa in SoHo.
New-age hellscape. Crystals everywhere. Whale noises.
One of the workers offers me a "grounding aura cleanse," and I have to restrain myself from committing a felony.
Nothing shady here either.
Paty leaves with a pamphlet and concerning enthusiasm about rose quartz.
I leave with a migraine.
We’re about to call it when we hit the last stop: