Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rick fumbled for his briefs, but gave up in frustration when they didn’t turn up beneath the scatter of clothes and shadows.
With a muttered curse, he grabbed his slacks off the floor, hopping on one leg as he awkwardly stepped in.
The fabric scraped up his bare thighs, snagging briefly on the curve of his ass before he wrestled them into place.
The suspenders, twisted and coiled like snakes, refused to cooperate, wrapping around his waist and nearly tripping him as he stumbled.
Behind him, Frank barked on at full volume. “You absolute fuckhead! I’ve been calling you for three goddamn hours. You think maybe you could’ve picked up? Let someone know you weren’t lying in a ditch bleeding out?”
Rick finally got the zipper to work and started scanning the loft for his shoes. “My phone must’ve died.”
Frank gestured wildly toward the street-facing windows, his coat swinging open.
“Do you know what time it is? You were supposed to be at the station at nine! When you didn’t show, didn’t answer your cell, I tried your home line.
Checked the hospitals. GPS logs. Dispatch said you clocked in last night, chasing a Yakuza sedan, then reported shots fired—and after that, nothing. You realize how that looks?”
“I was off-duty,” Rick said, voice even. “I handled it.”
“Clearly,” Frank bit out. “Your car’s wrecked outside a murder suspect’s building, and you couldn’t be bothered to call me?”
“Was kind of busy at the time.” Rick spotted his shoes poking from under a chair and bent to grab them.
“Not helping your case,” Ash murmured from the kitchen, unbothered. The smell of fresh coffee cut through the tension like an unexpected balm.
Frank shot him a death glare. “Stay out of it, kid. It’s bad enough I had to walk into your cathouse and see—” he waved between them, “this.”
Ash stirred the coffee lazily, leaning against the counter like he had front-row seats to a matinee. “It’s a converted firehouse. Show some respect.”
Rick threw him a look—half warning, half gratitude—then yanked his A-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on, dried blood painting one side in dark red. The bandage tugged loose with the motion, and he ripped it off without thinking.
Frank’s tone dropped, steel replacing fire. “Another one’s dead, Rick. Another pretty boy with his face gone. Dumped in Ravenholt Park. Crime scene’s a fucking mess.”
That stopped him cold. A chill went over him, colder than the morning air. He turned slowly, breath catching in his chest. “When?”
“Jogger found him at dawn,” Frank said. “Gloria’s already on site. Time of death puts it sometime around when you were busy playing house and dodging questions.”
“Fuck,” Rick hissed, reaching for the rest of his things.
He scooped up his bloodied dress shirt and suit jacket, bundling them under one arm.
The holster he didn’t bother strapping on, just grabbed it by the rig and let it dangle from his fingers.
No time for the tie or the coat. But he did pause long enough to plant his fedora on his head, shadowing his eyes.
“Let’s move.” He turned to go, but then stopped and met Ash’s gaze. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later.”
He was halfway to the exit when Ash called out after him. “Wait.”
Rick paused, hand on the knob.
Ash came closer, mug in hand, his robe half open. “Your wound,” he said quietly. “It’s gone.”
Rick stiffened. Ash reached up, touched his bare shoulder, fingers brushing smooth skin where the bullet had pierced only hours before. “There’s nothing there,” Ash murmured. “Not even a scar.”
Behind them, Frank shifted his weight with a grunt, the creak of floorboards loud in the silence that followed.
Ash’s eyes lifted, searching Rick’s face with something sharper than confusion.
“Guess we’re more alike than you thought, huh?” Rick said, holding his gaze.
Ash blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“You want to tell me you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Rick studied him a beat longer. There was no guile in Ash’s face; only naked, bewildered honesty.
His brows drawn slightly, mouth parted, violet eyes bright and startled.
Beauty made vulnerable by sincerity. Something twisted deep in Rick’s gut.
He doesn’t know. Somehow, he really doesn’t know what he is.
How the fuck is that even possible? “We’ll talk,” Rick said at last, voice low. “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
Ash seemed ready to argue. His mouth opened and closed. He stared at Rick, studying his face as if trying to excavate the truth by sheer force of will.
Rick turned toward the door again. Frank had started down the stairs, footsteps echoing. But Rick hesitated.
Ash stood where he’d left him, one hand on his coffee, the other tucked into the crook of his robe. The gray light touched the edge of his cheekbone, and his gaze tracked Rick with an expression Rick couldn’t read—too many things in it all at once.
Rick returned in two long strides, leaned in, grabbed Ash by the jaw, and kissed him—fast, rough, nothing elegant about it. Only contact. Only truth. Ash’s mouth opened under his without hesitation, heat meeting heat.
Then Rick pulled back, stepped away, and jogged after Frank.
(12:19 p.m.)
Rick ran out of the grungy auto repair shop and slid into the passenger seat of Frank’s SUV, pulling the door shut with a heavy thump. The old bench seat creaked under his weight, and Frank started the engine without a word, his jaw tight, eyes forward.
The car smelled like old fast food, stale coffee, mildew from a leaky A/C unit, and the faint ghost of a toddler’s car seat long since unbolted.
Years of domestic life sunk deep into the worn-out upholstery, still vivid to Rick’s sharpened senses.
Beige interior. Cracked dashboard. Some kind of pine-scented air freshener clipped to the vent that had clearly lost the war.
It was the kind of car you bought when you had a mortgage and no illusions left.
Frank shot him a glance as they pulled into traffic. “You trust this Orlov guy?”
Rick adjusted the brim of his fedora and rolled his neck, joints popping. “Trust him to keep his mouth shut and fix bullet holes, yeah. He’s been servicing this car for my old man while I was still in school. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make small talk. Charges extra for both.”
Frank snorted. “Figures. I could smell axle grease and cheap vodka from over here.”
“Yeah. That’s Ilya Orlov.”
Rick reached into the inside pocket of his torn suit jacket, fingers brushing past his badge before pulling out a crumpled Marlboro pack.
He struck a match off the dash and lit up, inhaling deep as the nicotine threaded its way into his bloodstream.
He let the smoke curl from his lips in slow ribbons, exhaling toward the window.
His body hummed with more than adrenaline. Thanks to the cursed gene, he’d healed completely, not even a twinge left where the bullet had hit last night. But it wasn’t just the wolf’s regeneration coursing through him now. It was Ash.
Even now, with the stink of blood and gasoline around him, Rick could feel that touch lingering under his skin like an aftershock, a low thrum of heat in his bones.
The kid had gotten inside him in more ways than one.
Left him raw and rebooted. He didn’t know what exactly Ash was, but the sex had sharpened his senses, left his body half-lit, like he’d plugged into a live wire.
Too much, too fast—but God, it had sunk in deep.
And now, here he was, half-dressed in the aftermath, blood dried into the seams of his shirt, his skin sticky with sweat and cum, some of it not even his. He hadn’t realized how bad it was until he got in the car and the heat kicked on.
Frank cracked the window and grimaced. “Jesus, Slade. You reek.”
Rick didn’t look at him. “Get me to my place. I need a quick shower and clean clothes. I’m not walking into a fresh kill looking like I crawled out of one.”
Frank grunted. “Fine. But make it fast. We’re late as it is.”
“Five minutes.”
“I give you three.”
Rick didn’t argue.
They drove on in silence. Outside, Calgrave passed by in muted grays.
The sky hung low and heavy, the color of wet stone, pressing on the rooftops like a fresh curse.
Rain was coming; he could smell it, a damp, metallic tang bleeding over the city’s concrete breath.
Storefronts blurred past behind streaked glass.
Neon signs flickered even though it wasn’t dark yet.
Along the crowded avenues, people walked with their heads down and their collars up.
Rick took another drag, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “All right, spill it,” he said. “I can’t deal with this silent treatment any longer.”
Frank didn’t turn his head. “I said all I got to say,” he mumbled.
“Cut the crap, Frank. I know you better than that.” Rick flicked ash out the cracked window. “You’ve been stewing since we left Ash’s place. Might as well get it over with.”
Frank didn’t speak at first. When he finally did, his words came raw around the edges. “What were you thinking, Rick? Jesus. Sleeping with a suspect is bad enough—but a goddamn demon?”
Rick’s knuckles flexed. “Is that all he is to you? Just a word with horns and a tail?”
Frank turned to him, expression sharp. “Don’t you dare play dumb. You’re the one who said it. You’re the one who blamed him for Hayes’s death.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe Hayes deserved what he got.”
Frank scoffed, bitter. “Oh, so now you’re defending him? Hell, Rick. I’ve seen you make some bad calls, but this…” He trailed off, shook his head. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re compromised.”
Rick shot him a look. “Not all monsters are evil,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “You should know that by now.”
Frank didn’t respond. His shoulders were drawn taut, fingers tapping once, then curling into a fist.