CHAPTER 61
Then—cold, matter-of-fact—“Here’s the truth, Paty. I’ve never dated a single woman at the courthouse. Much less slept with one.”
That makes her blink. Quick. Sharp.
She lifts her chin. “Like that’s believable.”
“It should be.”
“Come on.” She scoffs again. “They can’t all be lying. That doesn’t change the way they talk about you.”
“No,” I say, voice going cold. “But it should change the way you think about me.”
Her lips part like she might answer, but nothing comes out. I see the hesitation in her eyes. The shift. The something she’s about to say but doesn’t.
I look down—just for a second—at her mouth.
If I stay here, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Something like:it matters, Paty. What you think of me fucking matters.
So I don’t stay.
I grab the door and swing it open.
“I’m going to sort through the files from today,” I say over my shoulder, voice clipped. “Thanks for lunch.”
The door slams behind me.
And I walk away without looking back.
Be my good girl. Wear this for me today. Only this. I’ll be watching.
I’m standing in front of my mirror, thinking about the note he left—folded precisely, with three little origami cranes beside it. His cologne clung to the paper like a fingerprint.
I did what he wanted. Or thought I did.
Clearly not, because there’s been nothing from him all day.
No message. No sign.
No silent littleI-see-youtext to make my stomach swoop and my skin prickle.
Just silence.
“Way to go, Paty,” I mumble. “You broke your stalker.”
I should feel relieved. Safe.
But all I feel is... empty. Like someone rewired my chest wrong.
“Holy pepperoni on a pogo stick, this is getting pathetic.”
I tug a soft cami over my head. The matching shorts follow, brushing the tops of my thighs in a way that makes me shiver, even though the house is warm.
Settling on the living room floor with a sigh, I spread the case files around me, a glass of red wine near the edge of the coffee table.
The wine helps take the edge off.
Lets me pretend I’m not waiting to see if my stalker will text me.
Dexter circles twice before settling beside me.
I flip through pages—redacting notes, highlighting names—until something tugs at the back of my mind.
A pattern.
I sit up straighter, blinking at the spread.
I follow the trail with my fingertip, dragging across contracts and invoices, names and numbers, until it all converges.
One name.
A mid-level city controller tied to the clerk’s office.
My heart thuds. “This is the guy that leaked the warrant.”
I look at my phone on the floor next to me.
Not the burner—the one that’s been heartbreakingly, infuriatingly silent.
Just my regular phone. The one that can reach Roger.
It’s late.
I could wait. Let things cool off. Figure out how to apologize for being a total dumpster fire today.
But the weight of what we’re uncovering won’t let me.
Sighing, I grab the phone and type a quick text:
PATY: Sorry for the late text, but this can’t wait.
I attach the photos and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Seconds later, both phones light up.
Not one. Both.
My heart hiccups, nerves jangling before I even know why.
The burner chimes first. I grab it without thinking, thumb hovering over the notification.
UNKNOWN: Who are you texting?
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out and roll under the couch. Really?
A whole day of silence, and now he’s territorial?
“Someone’s feeling clingy,” I mutter, tossing the burner back onto the coffee table and looking at my real phone.
MCPERKINS: I’ll have him picked up by morning.
Short. Sharp. Efficient.
And it leaves me disappointed.
I sit back on my heels. Two screens glowing in the dark like twin lighthouses.
Two different men. Two completely different worlds.
Both pulling at the same twisted butterflies in my stomach.
Both unsettling me in ways I kind of like.
I drain my wine, turn off the TV, and scoop Dexter under one arm.
“Time for bed, partner,” I whisper, flicking off the lights.
The house settles around us as I climb the stairs. Each creak sounds impossibly loud.
At the top landing, Dexter’s tail goes still. A low growl rumbles—quiet but fierce—against my ribs.
And stepping into my room, I see why.
Dressed in black from head to toe, gloves still on, the Punisher-style balaclava gleams just enough to make my heart slam.
He’s in my chair by the window. Legs spread. One hand on his thigh, the other draped like he owns the place.
Like he owns me.
My pulse spikes hard.
That forbidden heat stirs low in my stomach, crawling up my spine—the kind of fear that isn’t really fear.
The burner chimes again downstairs, the ping slicing through the quiet.
He tsks under his breath, soft and full of mock disappointment, then rises—slow and deliberate.
A predator in no hurry.
He already knows I’m not going anywhere.
He peels his gloves off one finger at a time, sliding them into his back pocket. He stops just in front of me, close enough that his body heat wraps around mine.
I can’t breathe.
He lifts his hand, sliding a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
His touch trails down my neck, leaving my skin tingling, and continues lower—skimming my breast, my ribs, my waist.
When he cups my bottom, my body jolts forward, colliding with the hard planes of his chest.
His heartbeat is steady. Mine races.
His hand drags higher, finding the edge of my lace panties—panties he didn’t leave for me—and his thumb glides along the hem.
“Who gave you permission to wear panties?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “So eager for punishment, Sunshine?”
Before I can answer, his other hand slides into my hair, wrapping it around his fist and giving a sharp, commanding tug.
I gasp, head tipping back without thought.
His breath fans across my skin.
“You already disobeyed,” he whispers. “Let’s not make it worse.”
He holds me there just long enough to make me tremble, then steps back.
One step. Then another.
The distance feels colder than the air leaking through the window.
“Go get it.” he orders.
I stand frozen for a beat, body shaking under the weight of what he’s asking.
Then—because defying him feels impossible—I obey.
Each step downstairs feels like a mile.
I grab the burner from the coffee table and hurry back upstairs.
He’s already turned down the bed. Covers folded. Pillows fluffed. Sheets cool and inviting.
He sits at the edge, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he has all the time in the world, and nods at the phone.
UNKNOWN: Lose the panties, bad girl.
I hesitate, meeting his gaze through the slits of the mask.
My body screams at me to do what he says.
My pride—the tiny, stubborn bit I have left—wants to fight.
But I want more of what happened last night. The way he made me feel. It’s unlike anything.
Slowly, I climb onto the bed, sliding under the covers like a shield. I square my shoulders, tilt my chin in the smallest act of defiance.
“What if I don’t?” I whisper.
His answer is clipped.
“Off.”
This is a standoff—a challenge—I have no hope of winning.
The tension snaps tight.
He fists the blanket and yanks it off me in one sharp jerk.
I gasp at the chill, skin pebbling, but stay still.
He slides my shorts down my legs and tosses them aside. Then, with a vicious rip, he tears the panties off.
The fabric gives way with a sound that splits the quiet, my yelp echoing after it.
He lifts the scrap to his face, inhales, gaze locked on mine.
I feel it everywhere.
The ownership. The promise that he’s just getting started.
The panties slip from his fingers, forgotten.
I’m bare from the waist down, thighs together, air brushing against skin that feels too raw, too exposed.
My nipples are hard beneath my cami, and when his gaze drops to them, I feel it like a brand.
He lifts a hand and pinches one peak, rolling it slow and deliberate, watching me react with no mercy.