Chapter Twenty-Five
The hinges shrieked in protest as Ash opened the main entrance, the sound echoing up the stairwell.
A coin-operated laundromat hummed on the ground level, all harsh light and spinning drums, sealed off from the rest of the old firehouse.
They climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, side by side.
Ash fished out a key, turned it in the lock, and pushed open the heavy door to his inner sanctum.
The moment they stepped inside, Rick stopped short. Ash caught the low, sharp sound of his breath—a quiet note of surprise that told him the place had landed its punch.
The loft unfurled around them, lavish as a sultan’s palace, every inch echoing with contradictions: crammed bookshelves, an enormous fireplace, lush Persian rugs, a grand piano, a king-sized bed draped in black silk that caught the light like oil.
And past the sea of cushions and sofas, beyond the clutter of lamps and ottomans, the huge arched windows revealed Calgrave glittering under the haze, its skyline a jagged necklace of steel and shadow.
Rick let out a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
Ash tossed his keys into the porcelain dish on the table and shed his jacket. “Don’t look so shocked. What, you thought I curled up on a stained mattress in a burned-out ruin?”
Rick took off his coat and fedora, laying them carefully over the nearest armchair. His eyes were still sweeping the place, curious but guarded, as if he expected a trapdoor to open under his feet. “Well, I didn’t think it’d be this… Versailles.”
Ash smirked. “Get used to surprises, Slade.”
From the shadows, Poe came gliding out, tail high and disdainful. He twined briefly around Ash’s legs, caught sight of Rick, and froze. A low hiss rumbled from his throat, teeth bared, ears flattening.
Ash scooped the cat into his arms. “Don’t be rude, Poe. Detective Slade is our guest.”
Poe hissed again, clearly indifferent to proper decorum. He wriggled free, bolting under the nearest divan with his dignity intact.
“Cats never liked me,” Rick muttered. He seemed almost sheepish, standing there, too tall, too solid even for a space this vast, a room that seemed more an extravagant dream than a dwelling.
Ash gave him a once-over—the bruised knuckles, the blood-stained suit clinging to that hulking frame—then headed toward the bathroom. Suppressing the emotion crawling up his spine, he tossed the words over his shoulder: “Take a seat. Lose the shirt. I’ll find the antiseptic.”
He strode across the loft, boots quiet against the floor, heart knocking a little harder than before.
Just leftover adrenaline, he told himself.
Not the sight of Rick’s blood, hot, red, real.
Behind him, he could hear the rustle of Rick’s suit jacket being shrugged off, the thud of the holster hitting the counter.
After that, silence, except for the soft creak of a stool under a heavy body.
Ash rummaged through the cabinet. Alcohol. Gauze. Old painkillers. Under the sink, he found a half-empty tin of bandages held together with expired courage. He returned with the supplies—and stopped cold in the shadow of the kitchen.
Rick sat by the counter, spine angled partway from the light.
The Colt and holster lay on the granite like a sleeping viper.
His tie had been stripped off and tossed aside, his suspenders hung loose around his waist. One hand worked at the last buttons of his shirt, collar streaked with dried blood, mouth set in a grimace.
He peeled the shirt off, carefully, stiffly, baring a ribbed white A-shirt stretched tight across a body built for punishment.
Ash’s breath caught.
Bathed in light and shadow, Rick resembled something carved from old oak and bad temper.
Six-five, broad as a wrecking crew, forged like a man who carried the weight of the world and still found time to lift.
The sweat-darkened tank clung to him, drawing the eye to the defined muscle, the taut lines, the narrow waist that made his upper half seem even more massive.
Thick arms, bull neck, shoulders like fault lines.
Skin dusted with dark hair, enough to make him feel wild. Raw. Inescapable.
Ash didn’t usually go for the square-jawed, clean-cut, righteous type. But there was something about this one that made his stomach twist and flip in ways he didn’t want to admit. Next to him, other men seemed unfinished. He couldn’t help but stare.
Rick glanced up, catching him. “You gonna gawk or play nurse?”
Ash stepped forward. “If I start charging by the hour, you’d go broke.”
“Well, you’re out of my price range anyway.” With a wince, Rick dragged the A-shirt over his head, the motion wringing a grunt from him.
Ash had to summon every ounce of willpower not to stare again.
Rick’s chest was a brutal masterpiece, broad, furred, monumental.
He set the supplies on the counter and stepped between Rick’s parted thighs, so close their bodies nearly brushed, as he bent to examine the wound.
The bullet had pierced the meaty slope just above Rick’s clavicle—clean in, messy out.
But the bleeding had stopped, and the surrounding skin was beginning to dull.
The edges didn’t gape. There was no heat, no swelling, none of the trauma that should’ve been there. Almost like… it was already healing.
He frowned.
“Told you it was nothing,” Rick said, nodding to the wound like it was a bee sting. As if he were trying to downplay it. “Only tore the flesh a bit on the way out.”
Ash decided to play along. But inside, he began to wonder if there was more to this man than met the eye.
If that was why his gaze held steady. Why Ash couldn’t reach inside him and twist. “You should still go to a hospital,” he said, unscrewing the antiseptic.
He kept his tone casual, but his mind wouldn’t let it go.
Now he knew he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
“Get a tetanus shot. Rabies booster. Psych eval.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’re lucky it missed anything important.”
“You were luckier.” Rick’s voice was rough. “Somehow, you didn’t get shot at all. Even by two professional assassins. At close range.”
Ash averted his eyes, suddenly nervous under that suspicious gaze. He soaked a cotton pad in alcohol and leaned in. “This is gonna sting.”
A huff of breath. “What in life doesn’t?”
Ash pressed the gauze to the wound.
Rick flinched, grunting when it touched raw flesh.
“Sorry,” Ash murmured, fighting a smile and trying to sound like he meant it.
He worked methodically, dabbing around the wound, cleaning blood.
His fingers brushed Rick’s chest, grazing soft hair and corded muscle.
He was hyper-aware of the man’s size, the way he dwarfed everything, even while seated, including Ash.
Rick’s scent filled the air—gunpowder and aftershave, sweat and something primal.
Unequivocally male. The kind of scent that burrows under your skin and stays there.
Rick didn’t speak. Just stared at him, lips parted, breath shallow.
Ash felt the weight of that stare—felt it too sharply—until Rick finally broke it, his gaze sweeping the loft the way cops do when they’re taking inventory, noting every trinket as if it might be a clue.
“Didn’t know you played,” he muttered, nodding at the piano, his tone barely above a rumble.
Ash unwrapped a strip of gauze. “You don’t know many things about me.”
Silence settled again, heavier now. His hands stayed steady despite the thudding in his chest. Every brush of knuckle on skin struck a match. He felt Rick twitch under his touch, the man’s grip on the counter whitening his knuckles.
“You good?” Ash asked.
No answer at first. Then, hoarse: “I’m fine.”
The quiet grew too thick to ignore. Rick’s heat radiated in waves, his breath uneven.
Banter would’ve helped, filled the space, masked the static.
But it had dried up, leaving only this—this lull, this buzz in the air, louder than words.
The tension that had always hovered now seethed, too close to pretend away.
Every glance was a challenge. Every breath, a dare.
Ash gave the bandage a sharp tug where it wrapped under Rick’s arm and across his chest, then leaned back. “There,” he said. “All patched up. You’ll live. Unfortunately.”
Rick exhaled, almost a laugh. “Thanks, Nurse Ratched.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “You want a lollipop too?”
Rick’s gaze dropped to his mouth. “Depends where you’re planning to put it.”
The air crackled.
Ash stepped back, setting the scissors on the counter with a clatter. “You know, for someone who got shot less than half an hour ago, you’re still a mouthy bastard.”
“Bullet missed the sarcasm gland,” Rick said, standing, looming.
“You think you’re being funny?”
“You think I’m here for your bedside manner?”
Ash crossed his arms, gazing up at him. “So, why are you here?”
Rick’s eyes roamed over him like a gray cloud. “What do you think?”
“Because you’re a stubborn jackass who thinks he can tank a gunshot wound and still swagger around like he’s bulletproof?”
Rick smirked. “Now you’re just mad you didn’t get to play Florence Nightingale.”
Ash’s nostrils flared. “You’re unbelievable.”
Rick stepped in. “And you’re not?”
Now they were inches apart, their chests almost touching. Rick’s breath, warm and uneven, ghosted across Ash’s face.
“You insult my first-aid skills, and now what?” Ash hissed. “You want a goodnight kiss?”
Rick’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t say no.”
Ash shoved him in the chest, hard enough to startle. Not enough to move him.
Rick didn’t budge. He laughed.
That was what did it. That sound, low and smug and masculine, vibrating in Ash’s bones. Something snapped.