Chapter 6
Six
B rad gripped the steering wheel as the open road stretched out before him, the familiar landscape of Whispering Springs fading in the rearview mirror. Usually, this drive was his time to think, to map out his day with methodical precision. But this morning, his thoughts weren’t on work or cases. They were consumed by Isobel.
Her image lingered in his mind like a photograph burned into his memory—those moments that had somehow become more vivid, more significant in hindsight. First, there was the hollowness in her eyes when she’d read the note left with the bodies at the lake, her usually steady demeanor cracking under its menace. He’d watched her fight to keep her composure, but he’d also seen how deeply it shook her. That vulnerability had stayed with him, a reminder that she wasn’t as untouchable as she pretended to be.
Then there was the scene with John Larson. Brad’s jaw tightened at the memory. Larson’s questioning was less an inquiry and more an interrogation. The way she’d squared her shoulders, trying to steel herself against the onslaught of probing questions, had only highlighted the fear rippling beneath the surface. She’d handled it with grace, but Brad saw the strain in her eyes, the faint tremor in her voice. It took everything in him to keep his own anger in check.
And then there was the family dinner. He smirked slightly, recalling her curious expression as her sisters teased her about him. She’d been embarrassed but intrigued, and it had been clear she wasn’t entirely immune to their suggestions—or to him. The spark in her eyes during those moments had been hard to ignore, and he found himself wondering just how much of her curiosity extended beyond the superficial.
But last night… last night was different. Hot Shots overwhelmed her, and he knew it would. He’d prepared himself for her fear, for her shock. What he hadn’t prepared for was how much it would affect him. Seeing her in that chaotic, lawless space—so far removed from what the lifestyle was truly meant to be—stirred something protective in him. He wanted to shield her from the worst of it, to pull her back into the safety of his arms and remind her she didn’t have to face it alone.
What stayed with him most, though, was the moment they sat in her living room, the night between them. She was anxious, yes, but also curious. And when he offered to show her what the lifestyle really meant, he saw something else in her eyes—anticipation. It was subtle, just a flicker, but it was there, and it shook him to his core.
He kissed her goodnight on the cheek before leaving, a gesture that felt both intimate and restrained. He didn’t want to push her, to overwhelm her any further. But he also left the door open for her to take the next step. As he drove now, he couldn’t stop replaying that moment, wondering what she was thinking, whether she’d spend the day trying to understand her feelings—or bury them altogether.
The road curved as he neared the outskirts of Pierre, the city coming into view. Brad tightened his grip on the wheel, his mind still tangled in thoughts of Isobel. She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met—strong, intelligent, with a quiet vulnerability that drew him in more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t sure where this was heading, but one thing was certain: Isobel had gotten under his skin.
Now, as he pulled into his office parking lot, things sat heavy on his chest. He walked in, greeted by the familiar buzz of the office, but everything felt distant.
His secretary glanced up, her eyes full of questions, but Brad waved her off. “Hold my calls,” he muttered, heading into his office and closing the door behind him.
Once inside, the click of the latch brought a fleeting sense of control. He needed answers, and he needed them fast. Sitting down, he called one of the department’s investigators, barking orders as soon as the line picked up. “I need everything you can dig up on Detective John Larson, formerly LAPD, now with Waverly County PD. And get me the case file on the double drowning at Old Mill Lake four years ago. It was a Waverly County case.”
The investigator confirmed the request, but Brad’s mind already moved back to Isobel. He couldn’t shake the fear he saw in her eyes. He knew her long enough to recognize it. And even though she was strong, capable, and brilliant, he always sensed something else in her. A need for safety, for someone to take control when everything else was slipping through her fingers. It was a quiet submission, something she likely didn’t even know she had, but he noticed it. And now, with this new double murder, his protective instincts were roaring to life.
The buzzing of his intercom pulled him from his thoughts. “Brad, the commander is on the line,” his secretary said.
Brad picked up the call, already bracing himself. “Boss?”
“Killian,” the commander’s voice greeted him, not with anger but with something else, concern, maybe even amusement. “Detective John Larson filed a complaint against you. What happened?”
Brad’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. “The double murder at Old Mill Lake. Waverly County PD made the jurisdictional error and called us in. The northeast side of the lake is ours. The southwest is theirs. A note was left on scene for Dr. Isobel Everhart. The case bears a resemblance to a case she worked on four years ago. Larson was questioning her, and I stood by as support. He said he was allowing me to stay as a courtesy. Ruth Everhart, her lawyer, came in and stayed with her for the interview too. I didn’t interfere with his investigation. I wasn’t poaching his case.”
The commander let out a snort, almost an amused laugh. “So, being there pissed him off, huh? You and Dr. Everhart friends?”
“Family friend, yes,” Brad admitted.
“Larson transferred out of LAPD to Waverly County. We didn’t have an opening when he interviewed with us. I wondered what his angle was when I read his file. And now this complaint—something about this guy’s behavior rubs me the wrong way.”
Brad exhaled. “Yeah, I got that same feeling. He’s acting territorial about this case, and I don’t know why the apparent killer has involved Isobel Everhart.”
The commander paused as if weighing his next words. “Listen, Brad, do you think Larson might have more than a passing interest in Isobel Everhart? I’ve met the young psychologist. She’s an attractive woman. Do you think Larson is jealous of what he perceives as more than friendship?”
Brad stiffened, though the question wasn’t entirely unexpected. “Possibly,” he replied cautiously. “And you know I’m careful about showing my cards. This isn’t about that.”
“Maybe not,” the commander said, his tone friendlier now. “But if I know you, Killian, you’re more protective of her than you’re letting on. In your day-to-day, you’ve got a dominant streak, and if Isobel’s anything like I think she is, that dynamic’s already there, whether you’ve acknowledged it or not.”
Brad clenched his jaw. He’d thought about it. Hell, he’d thought about it more than once.
The commander’s tone shifted again, more serious now. “Larson’s a wild card. The fact he’s pushing this hard, this fast, suggests there’s more at play. Especially since he wants you clear of the investigation. Keep your eyes open. We’ve both been in this game long enough to know when something doesn’t feel right. And don’t worry about the complaint. I’ll deal with that. Just... keep your head clear.”
Brad let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thanks, Boss.”
The commander chuckled. “Good. Keep me updated on this, Killian. Something tells me we’re just scratching the surface.”
Brad hung up, the room suddenly feeling quieter, heavier. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, trying to push down the churn of emotions bubbling inside him. His commander was right—this was far from over. And whatever Larson’s angle was, Brad was determined to uncover it.
Every move from here on out had to be flawless. The wrong call, the wrong word, and everything could spiral out of control. Larson had already filed a complaint against him, marking the opening move in what was fast becoming a game of chess. But this wasn't just about a territorial pissing match. This was about something deeper. What, he didn’t know.
Isobel was strong, but no one could face something like this alone. And, damn it, he wasn’t going to let her. His instincts, the part of him that always needed to protect, were sharper than ever. But this wasn't just about instinct. It was about strategy now.
Rubbing his temples, Brad leaned back in his chair, trying to clear his mind. He’d always been a tactician, calculating the steps ahead. But this? This felt different. Larson wasn’t just an obstacle—he was an enigma. And the fact that he blocked Brad from the investigation sent a clear signal: Larson was hiding something, maybe protecting someone. Maybe protecting himself.
Brad sat up tall, determination flickering behind his tired eyes. He needed Mark Dillon. Dillon was embedded deep within the Waverly County PD, running an undercover operation very few knew about. He’d been investigating drugs being siphoned off an evidence stash, stolen before they made it to the depot to be destroyed. The very people sworn to uphold the law were tearing it down from the inside. Dillon had named names, officers who were part of the racket. He was supposed to be transferred to the highway patrol, a higher-paid position, his cover intact, but Brad needed him to stay. Just a little longer.
He walked to a tall file cabinet and keyed his way inside. Mark Dillon’s contact information sat in a folder along with three other prospective transfers to the bureau. He read off his cell phone number, committing it to memory.
Brad couldn’t afford to screw this up. The police were no stranger to turf wars, and this one had the potential to get ugly—fast. He was already marked as a problem in Larson’s eyes, and that meant he had to be twice as careful. Though he was higher rank, Larson could make trouble for him. Trouble he didn’t need.
Brad dialed the number from a burner phone he kept to remain anonymous.
“Dillon,” the voice answered, cautious but firm.
“It’s Brad Killian. We need to talk about another investigation. I’ll explain more, but we need to keep this under wraps. Can we meet somewhere private?”
There was a pause on the other end, and Brad could almost feel Dillon thinking about the risks.
“Alright,” Dillon finally said. “There’s a diner on the outskirts of White Oak Springs. Joe’s Place. You know it?”
“I do. I’ll be there in an hour,” Brad replied.
He hung up and quickly changed into civilian clothing. As he drove toward the diner, his eyes kept scanning the streets, checking for tails. He knew better than to assume he wasn’t being watched—Larson was a lot of things, but sloppy wasn’t one of them.
Joe’s Place was small and unremarkable, perfect for a low-key meeting. Brad parked a few blocks away, walking the rest of the distance. Inside, the smell of cheap coffee and greasy food hit him, and he quickly spotted Dillon in the far corner, nursing a cup of coffee.
Brad slid into the booth across from him, nodding in thanks as the waitress poured him a cup. “Dillon,” he greeted.
“Killian,” Dillon replied, his expression serious. “What’s going on?”
Brad took a breath, diving straight in. “I need your eyes a little longer in Waverly PD. Two teens were found dead last week at Old Mill Lake. It mirrors a case from four years ago, which my friend, Dr. Isobel Everhart, worked. Now, there’s a note linking her to these new deaths, and John Larson blocked me from the investigation. I need to know what he’s hiding.”
Dillon leaned back in his seat, studying Brad carefully. “I heard something about the case. Word spreads fast; the detective bureau is a sieve of gossip. They talk more than a bunch of teenage girls. Larson is a hard-ass. I’m not sure if that is the most impartial view.”
He paused, then leaned forward. “He could be too demanding for some.” He looked around. “My investigation has wrapped. Arrests are coming tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find before I’m transferred out. Just keep your end tight. If this blows, I’m buried.”
Brad nodded and reached for a pen.
“Here,” Dillon grabbed the pen and scribbled an email address on a napkin, “use this for anything sensitive.”
Brad passed him a card with a single phone number on it. “This is my burner. You can reach me anytime. If I don’t answer right away, the voicemail connects as if you are calling a Pierre barber shop. Leave a message.” His shoulders tightened. “If things go south, call me, and I’ll get you out.”
Dillon nodded, pocketing the card. “Alright, Killian. I’ll be in touch.”
As Dillon slipped out of the booth and disappeared into the afternoon light, Brad sat there for a moment. This was only the beginning, but something told him, the deeper he dug, the more dangerous it would become for him and for Isobel.
He tossed some bills on the table and stepped out into the cold afternoon air. The wind bit at his skin, but the fire inside him burned hotter. He was in this now, all the way, and he wasn’t going to stop until he uncovered what was going on.
And if it meant protecting Isobel, he’d go to war to do it.
Brad's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he began to drive the one hour back to Pierre, the road ahead doing little to quiet his mind. The meeting with Mark Dillon stirred something inside him, feelings of frustration and confusion he couldn’t shake. Larson, the case, Isobel... it was all too much.
Instead of heading back to his office, Brad made a sharp left off the highway into the small town of Elk Horn Hills, steering his car down a side street before pulling into a discreet parking lot. The Loft. He needed a break from everything else. Today, though, he wasn’t here to play. He just needed a damn drink. Before getting out of his car, he called his office, taking a half day of personal time.
Walking through the lobby, Brad noticed the gleaming floors, the art pieces on the walls that hinted at something more provocative than they seemed. The usual warmth of the place didn’t touch him today. His thoughts were elsewhere, still tangled in the memory of Isobel’s wide eyes.
The bar was quiet when he entered, the soft hum of conversation in the background like white noise. The dim lighting cast shadows over the polished wood and leather seating, a sharp contrast to the intensity of what often happened just beyond these walls.
Cheyenne, a petite submissive dressed in The Loft’s signature attire, if you could even call it that, approached him with a smile. She wore a barely-there white bra, delicate lace that covered little, and red satin tap pants that left nothing to the imagination.
“Master Brad,” she greeted, her voice soft but eager. “What can I get for you?”
Brad caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes when he asked for a beer. He wasn’t in the mood for play, at least not yet.
Cheyenne handed him the cold bottle, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she gave him a searching look, like she hoped he’d change his mind and ask for more. But he didn’t. He nodded his thanks and turned to the bar, taking a long, slow drink as the cool liquid slid down his throat.
Before he could even gather his thoughts, he heard the creak of a chair behind him and felt a familiar presence take the seat at his back. Jesse Gentry.
"Hmm, you’re here before the sunset. Second time in a week. Haven’t seen you tied up in knots like this before,” Jesse drawled, his voice rough but laced with humor. “You talked to sweet Belle, and she said no?”
Brad exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. Jesse was good at this, picking at people until they unraveled. But today, the words hit harder than usual. The truth was, she said maybe. His thoughts flashed to Isobel, the idea of holding her close, of protecting her, and his body tightened in response.
He shook his head, trying to laugh it off, but Jesse wasn’t fooled. “You always know how to read me,” Brad muttered, taking another sip of his beer.
Jesse’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “So?”
Brad huffed out a breath, but his feelings for Isobel slipped through. “Not exactly.”
Jesse leaned back, chuckling.
Brad placed his beer on the bar, hands clasped loosely between his knees, his expression a mix of frustration and introspection. Across from him, Jesse sat poised in his usual chair, the very image of calm authority. His brow furrowed slightly, signaling his concern.
“So,” Jesse began again, his voice measured, a psychologist’s tool to disarm, “did you get anywhere with Isobel?”
Brad let out a huff, more weary than annoyed. “Depends on what you mean by ‘anywhere.’ I took her to Hot Shots.”
Jesse tilted his head, his neutral expression inviting elaboration.
“She’s working on some divorce case involving a family member who goes there. But that’s not all.” Brad leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s connected to the two recent deaths at Old Mill Lake.”
Jesse’s eyebrows rose. “Connected how?”
Brad hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “The potential murderer left her a note. He told her she had it wrong in the original case four years ago.”
“That’s troubling.” Jesse leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees matching Brad’s position. “And dangerous. People who find themselves tied to murder scenes often don’t realize how quickly it can spiral. Naming her there could put her at risk.”
Brad nodded slowly but didn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifted, like he was recalling something far removed from Jesse’s office. “But that’s not what stayed with me the most,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It was the moment we were sitting in her living room. The night between us. She was anxious at Hot Shots—scared, even—but she was curious too.”
Jesse waited, his silence encouraging Brad to continue.
“And when I offered to show her what the lifestyle really means, I saw something in her eyes.” Brad’s lips curled into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Anticipation.”
Jesse’s thoughtful expression didn’t waver. “Hot Shots attracts a certain crowd,” he said. “Let’s not sugarcoat it—people who go there often aren’t the best-behaved adults. It’s a space where boundaries blur and inhibitions... well, vanish.”
Brad frowned, bristling slightly. “You think I shouldn’t have taken her there?”
“I think,” Jesse replied carefully, “you need to ask yourself what you were trying to accomplish. Was it to help her with her case? To satisfy your own curiosity? Or was it something else entirely?”
Brad’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “I wanted to show her I could handle it. That she didn’t need to be scared.”
“Of the place? Or of you?” Jesse asked gently.
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Brad’s fingers tightened around each other, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
“She wasn’t scared of me,” Brad said after a long pause. “At least, I don’t think she was.”
Jesse didn’t press, shifting his approach. “Brad, you’ve been through a lot lately. These murders, the stress of your own past, and now Isobel—it’s a lot to carry. Have you thought about how it’s affecting you?”
“I’m fine,” Brad replied automatically, his tone clipped. “This isn’t about me.”
“It always is,” Jesse said, his gaze steady. “You’re a part of all this—Hot Shots, Isobel, the deaths at Old Mill Lake. The question is whether you’re making decisions with a clear head or letting your emotions dictate your actions.
“You care about her,” Jesse observed. “That’s clear. But if you want to help her, you need to make sure you’re grounded. The last thing either of you needs is for your emotions to pull you into something even more dangerous.”
Brad frowned. “I think this case is the start of trouble, Jesse. I want to protect her, keep her safe. But she’s not…”
“She’s not what?” Jesse cut him off, eyebrow raised, waiting for an answer. “Not submissive?”
Brad’s silence stretched between them, the question hanging in the air. He didn’t answer, but the tell-tale signs of Isobel’s submission flashed in his mind—the way she deferred to him when she was overwhelmed, the trust in her eyes, the unspoken desire to have someone else take the lead when her life got too heavy. Brad knew. He’d known for a while now.
“She’s a psychologist,” Brad finally said, his voice low. “And there’s more to it than just... us. There’s this case. She’s tied up in it, and I need to keep her safe.”
Jesse leaned in, his gaze sharp now, losing the playfulness. “Then stop being a pansy Dom and go after your woman.”
Brad snapped his head toward Jesse, anger flashing for a brief moment. “I’m not a pansy Dom, and she’s not my woman.”
Jesse just laughed, unfazed. “Not yet, she isn’t. But she could be. If you’d stop thinking so damn much. You want to protect her? Then do it. But don’t sit here and whine about it.”
Before Brad could argue, Jesse slid a folder across the bar. “Take a look at these. New potential members. Background checks are in progress. I need your opinion.”
Brad sighed, taking the folder with half-hearted interest. He flipped it open, scanning the list of names, his eyes pausing on one that nearly made him sick. His stomach twisted, and he felt the bile rise in his throat.
John Larson.
“Jesus,” Brad muttered under his breath. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Jesse reacted to the sudden shift in Brad’s demeanor. “You know him?”
Brad swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Larson. He’s a detective with Waverly County PD. He’s filed an unwarranted complaint against me—blocked me from the investigation into Belle’s case. HPD doesn’t have jurisdiction either. And my boss doesn’t want me to get caught digging.”
Jesse’s face darkened, his amusement gone in an instant. “You’re telling me that bastard wants to be a member here?”
Brad tapped his finger on the name and nodded, his jaw clenched. “And I have no idea why. Well, that’s not true. Why else would a man want to join? But I’m telling you right now, Jesse, he’s hiding something. Something big.”
Jesse leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. “We don’t let just anyone through those doors, Brad. I’ll dig a little deeper. He has to make it past the psychological interview.” He raised a brow. “He has a pretty decent reference from the owner of Bliss. But if Larson’s involved in something deeper, you need to figure it out. Fast.”
“Bliss.” He knew it was an adult club in the LA area. Brad pushed the folder away, his mind already racing. Larson was a complication he didn’t need, but now he was in the thick of it, and there was no turning back.
His hands tightened into fists as he thought about Isobel, her safety, and the tangled mess of this investigation. “Jesse, can you reach out to the owner of Bliss?” This wasn’t just about protecting her anymore. It was about getting to the bottom of whatever Larson was hiding, no matter the cost.
“Oh, yes, I will. We are going to have a long conversation.”