Chapter 4
4
I nara
The city of New Rome has it all. Graffiti-covered concrete and parks full of ancient trees. High-rises and slums. Seven million people—many from the old country, streaming here by boat and plane to build a new life. The best and worst of humanity crammed into several square miles. I can walk three blocks and hear seventeen different languages. I can bump into a bum one moment and a billionaire the next.
This morning, I study each face. I strain to hear every voice. I’m looking for him . The man from last night. The dom with the voice of an angel and the presence of an emperor.
I’m waiting for my order at the coffee shop when I sense his dark, dominant presence. The back of my neck prickles; I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. I ignore it, but the sensation builds. He’s watching me.
Then I hear the rumble of a deep voice. He’s here. I glance around the coffee shop but no one stands out until I see a man in a suit pushing out the door.
Before I can stop myself, I push past the waiting customers and rush out onto the sidewalk. In front of the coffee shop, a dark-haired man is disappearing into the back of a black town car, and for a stupid moment, I think— could it be him?
“Ma’am? Your order is ready—” The barista’s call is cut off by the closing door, breaking my delusion. The town car pulls away, and I stare down the street, feeling lost. Of course it wasn’t him. I’m so desperate to find him I’m imagining things.
Once I get my coffee, I head to the bus stop in a daze. Each step reminds me of him, of how he owned my body so easily. My sex is still swollen from the orgasm he gave me.
Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to let go? Let someone else take over?
He read my deepest, darkest desires like they were written on my skin. I never thought I’d find someone who would see through my thick walls, but he did. What’s more surprising is I liked it.
I settle into a seat at the back of the crowded bus. I finish my coffee and reach into my bag for my sketchbook.
There’s a sprig of jasmine in my purse. I didn’t put it there. Did it fall in?
Or did someone drop it in as they brushed past me?
Who? Why?
I scan the people around me. I can sense their auras, burning bright and almost overwhelming me.
I exit the bus early, worn out from scanning people. There are too many people and too many voices crowding into my head.
Even now, I can smell the mystery dom’s cologne. I can’t shake the sense that he’s somewhere close. I can feel him watching. And he could be anyone. . .
I turn down a quieter street and almost run into a couple exiting their townhome. He’s in a navy blue work uniform, and she’s in a skirt suit. They pause and kiss right in front of me without noticing I’m right there, watching. They break apart and head separate ways but keep their hands clasped until the last second, laughing as their fingers slowly slide apart.
A wave of longing slams into me, so strong I can’t breathe. It’s like a fist squeezing my heart, and the pain makes my eyes water.
Desperately, I jack my arm behind my back and press on the marks from the dom. The ache in my heart recedes, replaced by something safer. Something I can handle.
This is why I need someone to wield a flogger in a way that I carry the bruises into the next day. To keep me from wondering what it would be like to be touched by someone who cared for me. To be treasured by them. To love and be loved in return.
What would it be like to be held by him?
This is exactly why I don’t allow anyone to touch me.
I charge across the street, ignoring the churning deep in my chest. I rush to get out of the way of a black town car that was rolling through a green light. My satchel bangs against my hip, and each step jars the marks on my back. I was stiff this morning but took only a single dose of pain meds, just enough to get me moving. The sting from the flogger has faded to a dull ache, but as I step onto the curb, I twist sharply so my back muscles scream and make the pain knife through me again.
If I’m lucky, the pain will wash every other craving away.
Ten minutes later, I’m staring at a dead body.
The crime scene is on the executive floor of a business suite, and the victim was a CEO. He looks small and fragile in death. His head is hanging down like he’s taking a nap. That is until you see the stain of his life’s blood spreading like a dark bib over his white button-down.
I wish I could go back home and crawl back in bed. Or better, head to Club Empire and hang around until I hear the smooth, deep tones of my mystery dom.
I slide a hand under my jacket and press the marks on my back, and the pain soothes me. It will ground me, stabilize me, allow me to get me through the day.
“Godsdamned rich bastard,” my new partner, Detective Tim Burgess, mutters.
“What?” I glance from the dead body to him and realize he’s reading a newspaper while we wait for the techs to clear the crime scene.
“Not him.” Burgess jerks his chin at the dead body, then reads the headline out loud, “Billionaire Rex Roy to host Miss Olympus Beauty Pageant.” He folds the newspaper and stuffs it in his pocket. “Lucky fuck.”
“Rex Roy?” I say. “I’ve heard that name.”
“He owns half the city. Rich bastard.”
I nod. I’m trying to be accommodating because I’ve never had a ‘partner’ before.
“Some guys have all the luck. Unlike this guy, whose luck ran out.” He nods at the victim.
Our victim had a corner office, one worthy of the CEO of the company that owns the whole old brick building. Instead of boring greige walls and corporate decor, there are flood-to-ceiling bookshelves made of polished mahogany wood and a thick Persian carpet on the floor. Leather-bound briefs and a crystal decanter filled with whiskey grace the bookshelves. Everything from the Mont Blanc pens to the view of New Romes’ financial district speaks of wealth and power.
It doesn’t matter who you are. Death comes to everyone. I can’t stop it. Time and time again, I’ve learned I can’t save anyone. But I can seek justice for the dead.
It’s the least I can do.
The corners of the room hold a strong chemical scent—harsh, like the cleaning products on the custodial cart outside the door. It burns my nose and clears my head.
But underneath, there’s another scent. Woodsy cologne, just like the dom was wearing last night. The rich scent that matched his deep voice.
I stop that line of thinking. I’m here to work. My life is segmented into strict boxes. I live for my work, and when my cravings get too great, I go to the club for a carefully scripted scene.
The dom blurred the lines. And now, he’s in my head rent-free.
I thought I was safe. I thought the rules would protect me. And he didn’t technically break any rules, yet. . . he shattered me all the same.
I need to focus. There’s a body in front of me. A victim, a man who had once been at the height of his power. In one slice of the killer’s blade, he lost it all.
While I’ve been studying the office, Burgess has been staring at me. He’s a carbon copy of many detectives I’ve known—deep grooves along his nose and mouth and liver spots on his balding head. Aged before his time with the heaviness of someone who’s seen the worst of humanity and knows he will see much more before he dies.
He’s weighing me in the balance and, I’m sure, finding me wanting. First of all, I’m a woman. Second, with my sweater and jeans, brown leather boots, and hair pulled into a ponytail, I look more like a grad student than a profiler with seventeen solved cases under my belt. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. If we’re talking about unofficial cases, my solve record is in the fifties.
Yesterday, I heard Burgess complaining about having to ‘babysit’ me. So, the best way to convince him that I know my stuff? Clearing this case.
I can’t allow my craving for the mystery dom to distract me.
“CEO of Martin Shipping,” I recite what I know so far. “Gregory Martin himself. Grandson of the founder. Raised to run this place. Inherited his position and most of his shares when his father died. Estimated net worth, a hundred million.”
Burgess grunts. “Found by a janitor. According to his assistant, he usually works late. Keeps night hours. Says he gets his best thinking done then.”
“His family didn’t expect him home?”
“He’s got an ex-wife in Florida. One son is in college, another is in boarding school. They see their father on assigned holidays.”
“And now he’s gone forever,” I murmur. Pain squeezes my heart. This is the worst part of a murder for me, imagining the pain of the loved ones left behind. I don’t have to imagine. I know from experience. In one night, my family was taken from me. Gone forever, obliterated from everywhere but my memory.
Burgess shrugs. “They’ll inherit enough money. They’re probably glad he’s dead.”
Fuck this guy. “He had kids,” I say through gritted teeth. “People who loved him.”
“Just another rich fuck,” Burgess mutters, and I round on him.
“He mattered to someone. Rich or poor, we die all the same. But everyone matters.”
Burgess lifts his eyebrows at my passionate defense. I’ve said too much.
“Scene’s ready for you,” the head tech, Diego Silva, calls to us, and I thank the gods for the interruption.
The plastic covering on my boots crackles as I pace forward. For a moment, the room darkens, like I’ve walked through a cloud of black smoke. It’s not real; it’s just my extra sense kicking in. After a moment, it clears, and I lean in to examine the body slumped in the leather chair.
“Time of death is sometime after midnight,” Diego tells us. “But before five a.m. That’s when the custodian came in. He cleaned the floor below this and was going to end his shift with this one. He’s one of only a few staff allowed in here.”
The dead man has his elbows propped on the chair, his forearms in his lap. Under the blood-spattered cuffs are red marks on his wrists. No bruising, more like a braided pattern.
It looks strangely familiar. I squat for a closer look.
“Diego, did you see this? The pattern on his forearms?” The crisp white shirt is crushed where a rope might have pressed into it.
“Yeah, the lead detectives clocked it. I got pictures.”
I pull out my cell and snap a picture of my own, zooming in. “Rope marks,” I murmur. “He was tied to the chair.”
In an instant, I’m back at Club Empire with the mystery dom saying, If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you.
What sort of ties would he use?
Dammit, I have to stop thinking of him.
“So, what, the vic just sat there and let someone tie him up?” Burgess asks.
“He could’ve been drugged,” I say. There’s a snifter on the dead man’s desk with a few drops of amber liquid left in the bottom of the glass and a fully stocked bar across the room. “Could be the whiskey.”
Burgess must have already thought of this, and now he’s testing me. I’m new to the city and the force, so I expect a bit of hazing.
“They’ve already sent samples to the lab,” Burgess says. Yep, definitely testing me.
I’m still studying the red marks. “If it’s not a drug. . . it could’ve been consensual. Rope play.”
“Like some kink shit?”
I don’t say more. The last thing I need to do is out myself as a kinkster in front of my judgmental new coworker. As I move around the vic, I’m extra aware of the flogger marks on my back hidden under my sweater and leather jacket. The pain steadies me, centers me. It’s a surrogate to touch, the next best thing to having the dom here and holding me. . .
I close my eyes. It’s not the same as being blindfolded, but sometimes it heightens my other senses.
I sense the darkness in this room, the weight of death and violence, and I see a large, dark shape looming over the dead man.
I want to reach for my sketchbook and draw what I’m imagining, but Burgess’s heavy tread tells me he’s breathing down my neck.
“So what’s your deal?” he asks. “You think you’re psychic?”
And here we go. “The brain processes a trillion points of data a millisecond. What most think is instinct or psychic ability is simply the subconscious delivering that data.”
I straighten to see his blank expression. Like most men his age, he hides his confusion behind a stone wall.
“I’m just looking at the scene details and making guesses. Connections. Just like you or any other detective.”
Burgess’s eyes narrow. “Last case you were on, the detective told me you knew stuff. Stuff no one could possibly know unless they watched the killer. Freaky.”
This is why I don’t get close to people, but not the only reason or the most important one. My gift is a curse and sets me apart. It marks me as different and puts me on a separate course, alone.
“Maybe I have a great imagination.” Like Tesla or Einstein, though I doubt he’d understand the reference. “I’m just able to piece together more of the scene from the facts I have.”
He’s not buying it. I have to give him something, or he’ll stand here questioning me all day, and I’ll never get a chance to review the scene like I need to.
“Do you believe in the gods?”
He nods. Most citizens of New Rome believe in the pantheon, even if they’re not really devout enough to go to the temples.
“Maybe I just have a connection to one of them.” I hold his gaze until he looks away. Finally, I can do my work. I walk around the body, searching for more clues. Under the chemical smell, I get another hit of that cologne—the one that reminds me of the dom. It’s faint and isn’t coming from the body. I don’t mention it in case I’m imagining it.
Stop thinking of HIM.
“Have you talked to building security?” I ask.
“They’ve been interviewed. But there were none up here. Gregory Martin liked to be left alone.”
“And he didn’t have anything on his calendar? No hint that he might be meeting someone up here?”
Burgess shrugs. “Tony and Jim are taking care of that.” He’s talking about Tony Cuccinelli and Jim Bonds, the lead detectives assigned to the case. The ones we’re meant to assist, although Burgess doesn’t seem to take his duties seriously. I make a mental note to interview the employees and assistants myself.
A shadow darts across the corner of my eye. A big shape, huge but silent. A predator.
I turn to follow it, but it’s gone. A figment of my imagination. A hit of intuition.
My psychic abilities coming to life .
Burgess turns with me, but of course he sees nothing. I keep my expression blank, scanning the hallway.
“Any sign of the murder weapon?” I ask to cover my sudden pivot.
“None. Probably a knife. Autopsy will tell us more.”
“What about cameras?” I’ve scanned the corners, but it doesn’t look like there are any in here. “Any on this floor?”
“Nope. We’re getting the feed from the ones in the lobby to maybe get eyes on the fucker.”
I shake my head. “The killer didn’t come through the front door.” I start down the hall.
“How do you know?” Burgess asks, but I’m already leaving him behind to follow the dark shape hovering in the hall, the darkness beckoning me forward.
It’s not real, of course. But it’s something that will lead me to a clue.
This is why I’m here. My extra senses, my ability to find the darkness and follow it until I find a killer. It’s how I’ve solved so many cases and gotten justice for the deceased.
I don’t know why the gods chose me for this gift, this curse. All I know is it’s what I’m good at, what I’m made for. My calling, my mission, my entire life.
This is why I won’t try to reconnect with the dom. Other people have lives and friends and families. I have this. The crime scenes and the connection with the victims. The hunt for justice.
That’s all I have.
It has to be enough.
“Where’s the closest fire escape?” I don’t wait for an answer before heading down the hall to find it. Diego comes out of a cubicle to stand beside me, facing a heavy door.
“Alarm’s not disabled,” I note. The killer would’ve had to bypass the alarm if he entered this way. Which he did, I’m almost sure of it. “Let’s open the door, see if it triggers.”
He nods and pushes the heavy door open with his gloved hands.
I brace for the scream of the alarm, but nothing happens.
“Alarm’s broken,” Burgess mutters.
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
“It’s still hooked up,” I say. “The wire’s connected.”
“Maybe there’s a short.” Silva holds the door open so I can step out onto the outdoor landing. This is an old brick building with an antiquated external fire escape. The killer could’ve climbed up somehow and used this entrance. But how did they bypass the alarm?
“Ladder’s still folded up,” Burgess continues, stating the obvious.
“What would we do without you?” Silva mutters in a comment meant only for my ears.
I suppress a smirk. It’s nice to have someone in my corner.
“Do you think he came in this way? Up a fire escape and through a locked door?” Burgess asks.
“He didn’t come up the fire escape. He only used the platform,” I say without thinking. I don’t have evidence to back this up yet. Just my vision.
But I’ve learned the hard way that my visions are always right.
“So what, he jumped up five stories from the ground?” Burgess is disbelieving. Even Silva looks skeptical.
I follow the brick wall up to the roof, blinking against the needles of rain hitting my face. “Or from the roof.”
“Okay then, he jumped down two stories? Like some sort of daredevil? How’d he take care of the alarm?” Burgess asks again.
I close my eyes and get another hit of woodsy cologne. I have to be imagining it, because it’s raining too hard for the scent to be real. The sky’s opened up, doing its damnedest to wash the world clean. If only it could wash away my psychic sense of a sinister presence.
“I don’t know,” I finally say.
“We’ll check for prints.” Silva motions to a nearby tech.
“You probably won’t find anything,” I tell him. “This guy was careful, prepared. He would’ve worn gloves.” I point to the building next door. “Let’s see if they have cameras.”
* * *
Dearest Swallow,
Today, I followed your bus home. You felt my presence, I’m sure, but you were so intent on your sketchbook that you didn’t see me. You’ve learned to close yourself off from mass humanity. No doubt, this keeps you from going insane.
You seemed disappointed. A man stopped you outside of work, and you told him your investigation had stalled. He tried to comfort you and asked you to go with him to a popular cop bar around the corner.
I was ready to step from the shadows and end him, but you rejected him.
Even now, you seem to instinctively know you are mine.
I’ve been reading about your job, and it seems you have found a way to use your gift. You’ve come a long way since that night in Elyria. Your parents would be proud.
You don’t seem to have any friends. Is that to keep you safe? Or them?
I should want more for you, but I don’t. I enjoy imagining that I’m the only one in your life.
Your only companion is your sketchbook. You were drawing in it today, and I would give anything to see what you’re sketching.
I want to get close to you, but it’s too soon. Just know I’m counting down the days until I can return to your side.
BK