CHAPTER 64
I watch, transfixed, as he licks his palm—slick with both of us—then draws soaked fingers between his lips, groaning deep in his throat.
I’m so gone for him it hurts.
His thumb and forefinger catch my chin, tipping my face up.
“You’re gonna smell like me tomorrow,” he says, voice thick with possessiveness. “When those motherfuckers get too close—they’ll know you belong to me.”
I don’t know whether to shiver or sob. Maybe both.
He stands and turns to leave.
Panic slams into me.
“Wait,” I call out, voice small and wrecked.
He pauses in the doorway—half shadow, half man.
“Will you...” I choke, forcing it out. “Stay? Until I fall asleep?”
The room feels too dark. The memories are too loud—of killing, of how good it felt. Of how much more of him I want.
I don’t want to be alone with my mind.
He stares for a beat, then moves back to the chair.
“Sleep, Sunshine. I’ll be here.”
I turn onto my side, pulling the sheet to my chin.
And for the first time in a long while?—
I feel safe.
Iscroll through Paty’s late-night text again, sipping black coffee strong enough to strip paint.
It’s not the first time I’ve read it this morning.
She actually found the link we’d been chasing for weeks.
A midlevel city controller—low enough to avoid scrutiny, dirty enough to launder paperwork through shell companies.
Lease after lease.
Fraud buried under so much bureaucracy it would've taken a task force months to untangle.
And she did it alone.
In a few hours.
The question now isn’t whether the clerk’s dirty—he is.
It’s whether he’s working alone or if someone higher up is tipping him off.
I had the bastard picked up before he could finish opening his car door at the courthouse.
He’s sitting in an interview room, sweating through his cheap suit.
But he can stew a little longer. I’ve got something else to handle first.
I lean against the front steps, holding an extra coffee, waiting for a certain pink tornado to blow into the parking lot.
Paty pulls in with a fresh rental. Her friend Sebastian parks beside her, the two of them piling out with the kind of energy I’d usually associate with feral raccoons raiding a dumpster.
I sip my coffee, watching from under the brim of my cap, pretending not to notice the slight falter in her step when she sees me.
She hesitates—just for a second—then Sebastian gives her a not-so-subtle shove. I called him this morning and asked him to skip her usual coffee stop.
He doesn’t bother hiding his shit-eating grin as he saunters past, tossing a casual, “Be nice, Detective Danger,” over his shoulder.
I lift the coffee slightly, offering it like a peace treaty.
“Truce?”
She eyes it like it might bite her.
Or worse—make her forgive me too easily.
Still, after a long pause, she takes it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
Paty blows out a breath, studying the lid like it’s fascinating.
Finally, she nods.
Small. Tight.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “For . . . being a raging harpy.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I wrestle it down.
I jerk my chin toward the courthouse.
“Come on. Your city clerk’s about to shit himself in holding.”
She lifts her chin like she’s aiming for dignity, but there’s a mischievous glint in her eye now.
“Oh, I’ll handle it,” she says, breezing toward the entrance like she plans to go in alone.
“Like hell you are,” I mutter, following.
She glides through courthouse security, smiling and waving at a couple of regular court officers.
Meanwhile, I get the usual stink-eye as I empty my pockets and walk through the metal detector.
Business as usual.
We head toward the elevators, her heels rapping sharply against the floor, when she pulls her phone up and fake-dials with a bright, fake-smile voice.
“Hi, I’m calling the Grumpy-Gurdie hotline,” she says sweetly. “I have a sourpuss to report.”
I grunt, deadpan.
“Why do you dress like a Pepto-Bismol bottle?”
She gasps, glancing down at her pastel-pink pencil skirt and blouse like she’s personally offended.
“This,” she says, full of haughty indignation, “is rosé elegance.”
I snort. “It’s bubblegum warfare.”
I shoulder the door open, watching the way the fake annoyance slides off her shoulders like a too-heavy coat.
Real Paty peeks out again.
God help me, I missed her.
We’re halfway down the hall when Paty suddenly lights up like it’s happy hour with an old friend.
“Miles!” she calls out, waving at a guy in cuffs being escorted by a court officer.
The man blinks, confused.
I bristle, just for a second. He’s mousy, forgettable, dressed in a rumpled Petorama shirt and walking like he’s allergic toeye contact. Still. Doesn’t stop the flicker of something sharp in my chest until I size him up fully—and decide he’s about as threatening as a deflated pool toy.
“It’s Mark.” The man brightens a little when he spots her. “Hey—how’s the pup liking the new food?”
Paty grins. “Oh, he’s obsessed. Thanks again for the recommendation.”
He shrugs, awkward in the cuffs. “Glad it worked out.”
She gestures vaguely to the situation. “So… what’s going on here?”
“Oh, I’ve got a lot of speeding tickets,” he says with a sigh.
Her smile falters. “Define ‘a lot.’”
“Eight hundred.”
Paty’s jaw drops. “Like… cumulative adult life?”
“No. Last year in Chicago. Delivery van for this restaurant. Long story.”
She stares at him, speechless for once, then nods slowly. “You know what? I respect the commitment.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Mason!”
“Mark,” he corrects again, tone patient but dying inside.
She shoots him finger guns. “Right. I knew that.”
We turn down the next hallway, and she mutters into her coffee, “He really should wear a name tag.”
“He was,” I say flatly.