Chapter 11
11
H im
The best thing about having an enemy tied up and at your mercy is. . . everything. The muffled screams. The whites of my victim’s eyes flashing as he silently pleads for mercy. The blooming heat in my muscles, my power unleashed.
My last victim was a young, able-bodied man wreaking havoc on the streets of New Rome after dark. Now, he’s a pathetic husk of himself, stinking with fear.
I set my knife to his bare chest and focus on making the cuts deep and even. It’s difficult work with my subject trembling so hard, but I suppose it’s been a long day for him. I’m surprised he has the energy to move.
He pissed himself a while ago. Now he’s too dehydrated to do anything but moan.
My phone vibrates on the metal cart that holds the rest of my tools.
I set the knife down to answer it. “Report.”
“She left the shoe shop in a taxi. Should be arriving in ten.”
“Show me.”
I pace toward the window, not wanting to see a picture of my little bird while standing near one of the men who attacked her. I stand in a band of pale light as the picture comes through in a few seconds. And there she is: my little bird wrapped in her dingy coat, her chin tucked into the collar against the wind.
Poor, sweet swallow, innocent and so alone. The next picture comes through, showing a pedestrian, a man, turning his head to check her out as she passes. I stiffen, but it’s clear from the photo that Inara doesn’t notice her admirer. And Igor would stop anyone from getting close. It would blow his cover—she’ll recognize him as her driver the night she was attacked—but it’d be worth it to keep my little bird safe.
I pocket my phone and head back to my victim. Adam Devida. Twenty-seven, one of the Five Points gang. Believes in white supremacy, the great replacement theory.
And doing meth. Lots and lots of meth.
A total waste of space. No one to miss him but his friend Joey.
But Joey’s dead now, so who will care about Adam’s death?
No one. No one at all.
Joey pushed my little bird. And my rage burned red. His death came swiftly.
Dumping him on her doorstep wasn’t wise, but there’s nothing to link him back to me. And what’s the fun of having so much money and power if I can’t dispose of people exactly how I please?
In my own way, I take out the trash. First Joey. And soon, Adam will join his friend. Another two days and water deprivation will do its work. It’s torture to die this way, but it’s still too good for Adam.
He’d called my little bird a bitch. For that, I will take his tongue.
He senses my movements from a few feet away and turns his head. He’s blindfolded but attuned to my presence. His very existence depends on it.
In some ways, he’s like a submissive in a club scene. The care I take in torturing him is the same. So is the planning and clean up. My knowledge of the map of veins and blood vessels in the body comes in handy when cutting into a victim or whipping a sub.
It’s always satisfying when skills in one area extend to another. And the power rush I feel when I’m a dom or a killer is exactly the same.
So is the way the submissive or victim begs and pleads. Different levels of desperation but intoxicating all the same.
I let my footsteps fall harder on the cement floor so Adam hears my approach.
“No, please,” he whimpers. Asking for mercy he would never give to another.
I strip off my gloves, setting them aside. I’m careful not to leave DNA, even though there’s a whole arm of Roy Industries devoted to cleaning solvents that dissolve all evidence from a crime scene.
The end is coming for my victim and coming soon.
He shouldn’t have attacked my little bird. Not while I was watching. My protection extends retroactively and into the future, now and forever more.
When I own something, I like to own it completely.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back later. In the meantime, the rats will keep you company. They love the scent of fresh blood.”
He moans, but he knows better than to talk back. If the last twenty-four hours have taught him anything, it’s that.
I leave him tied to the chair.
I head to the exit and pick up my jacket. I’m already dressed in my signature tux. Not my usual attire for torturing and killing someone, but duty calls. The night is young and holds many pleasures, including the culmination of this little game I’m playing with Inara Ramos. My little bird. My cock swells in my slacks just thinking of the moment when she first lays eyes on me and knows. But I have no time to stroke one out and fantasize about it.
I have a gala to get to.
* * *
Inara
The NRPD Charity Gala is in a building called the Corinthian, a gorgeous temple of white marble built in a NeoClassical style. The taxi spits me out on the sidewalk, and I hustle up the stairs, sneaking past pockets of people lined up to take pictures on the small stretch of red carpet they’ve provided for guests to pose for the press.
A flock of birds flies overhead, covering me in their shadow. They fade into the night, making me wonder if they were real at all.
The marks on my skin burn under my coat. I don’t want to take it off and bare my arms, but I make myself hand it and my big, ugly bag over to the coat check people. Tucked at the bottom of the bag are the boots I wore to work. I leave them but take my wallet and cell in my new clutch.
I also take the satin wrap, winding it over my arms. It still bears the faint scent of jasmine.
My new shoes are fashionable but hard and uncomfortable. The high heels pitch me forward, and I let the momentum carry me into the ballroom.
Since leaving the precinct, I’ve been in a daze. I splurged on shoes and a black clutch with gold hardware to match my new dress and then a taxi ride to get me here. I spent the trip staring at my phone, researching Shibari. The further down the research hole I tumble, the more certain I am.
My mystery dom is the killer I’m searching for.
But who is he? I don’t know his name. I’ve never seen his face.
And I don’t have any proof it was him. My visions guide me, but I need hard evidence. If I bring this to Burgess or Bonds, they’ll laugh me out of a job.
And I can’t tell them about my visions or the marks on my arms that match the victims. I shudder to think of what they’d say.
No, I have to investigate this lead on my own. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll head to Club Empire and try to get a name for my mystery dom. The club is notoriously private because of its high-end clientele, but I’ll flash my badge and threaten a warrant if I have to. Never mind what it would take to convince a judge to give me a warrant based on a vision and what barely qualifies as circumstantial evidence.
But first, I have to get this ball over with. I’ll find the chief, making sure he knows I’m here as ordered. I’ll pretend to schmooze with the donors, and the first chance I get, I’ll slip away.
I drift through the sea of socialites, my high heels striking a rhythm on the polished floor. There’s a band on a stage at the far end of the ballroom, and soft classical strains float above the crowd. I pass a highly decorated officer in her dress uniform, looking stiff and out of place as she studies the passing faces as if she’ll be quizzed on them later. I nod to her, and her gaze sweeps over me—up, down, and away. Once she saw my gown, she clocked me as another civilian.
I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to have something to occupy my hands. There’s a dark cloud forming over the room. . . more than just the oppressive energy of the crowd. Under my silken wrap, my bare arms prickle.
It’s as if I can sense someone watching over me. Not just anyone. Him.
There’s a noticeable split in the middle of the room, with cops on one side and wealthy philanthropists on the other. I walk the space between them alone. I pass a flock of ladies in gorgeous gowns. One of them turns and does a double-take when she sees my dress before narrowing her eyes.
“Is that Versace?”
“It was a gift,” I say and turn away.
My head’s still filled with images of the crime scenes. The marks that decorate the victims’ arms from elbows to wrists. The same marks on my own arms.
This is my favorite type of tie.
Little bird. . .
My instincts are leading me to my dom. I’m itching to leave this place and search him out, but I’m also dreading it. If I’m right, and he is the killer, that means I was alone with him. I let him tie me up.
I let him hold me.
And then, he left and killed someone. Someone who had happened to harass me that very night.
Is the mystery dom him? The one watching me? The one who’s been stalking me? Is he watching me, even now? Is he responsible for these murders? If so, how many times has he killed? Will he kill again?
Am I his next target?
I have to find him. I have to know.
I’m almost to the edge of the room when I stop in my tracks. There’s a lingering scent here. A familiar cologne that takes me back to the room in Club Empire. Woodsy and fresh, it grounds me.
And I know. . .
He’s here. My dom. The number one suspect in two murder cases.
I spin in a slow circle. Where is he?
I have a vision of him, a large shape moving through the crowds. His powerful presence makes people move out of his way. In a room full of important people, he rules supreme.
It’s the same presence that made me respond to him when we were alone in a private room at the club. The weight of his gaze, the overwhelming sense of him. His cologne mesmerized me, the scent following me home, hovering in my bedroom. Haunting me.
There. A dark-haired man, standing head and shoulders above the rest. Tall and solid, built like a warrior of old—the same size and shape as the blurred figure in the footage I was given. He has his back to me, but. . . could it be him? A bunch of people surround him, men in tuxedos and women in beautiful gowns with scarlet red lips. They all want his attention, but he’s aloof, untouched by their wit or gossip.
Or maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe I’m going mad. My visions and instincts are a curse and a blessing, bringing me into a crime scene to relive the details. But I’ve never been so embroiled in a case before, the intimate details saturating my waking moments and my dreams. The mystery dom, whoever he is, has obliterated the lines between my work and real life. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in such close contact with a murderer. Not since that night in Elyria and the horrors that happened there.
“Detective Ramos,” someone calls. I’m half relieved to have a direction to turn, a touchstone to keep me grounded in the here and now. My relief turns to dread when I see Chief Jordan waving me over. Time to glad-hand with the brass and donors. My nerves are on fire, my skin crawling at the thought of touching them, even if it’s to shake hands.
He’s standing with a few other members of the force, officers who were allowed to wear their dress uniforms instead of being ordered to wear black tie attire like I was. Did Jordan have his people send me the dress? My gut says no, but who else would send it to me?
It’s another mystery I need to unravel. My instincts are telling me it’s another piece of the puzzle, part of the full picture. Another thing to investigate.
This ball can’t be over fast enough.
“Chief Jordan,” I greet him. “This is an amazing event. Thank you for inviting me.” No harm in starting with compliments and gratitude. “Everything looks incredible.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Jordan smiles. A few of the gray-headed men straighten their shoulders and puff up their chests. They’re not immune to flattery from a woman half their age wearing a gorgeous ball gown. “Come with me, Ramos. I have some people I want you to meet.” He offers his arm, and I take it, grateful that I don’t have to shake anyone’s hand. I don’t want to touch anyone. I’m too jumpy.
We leave the rest of the old guard behind and head across the chasm to the old money that actually runs this city.
“That’s the DA.” He points out a short, stocky man with bristling eyebrows. I’ve seen pictures of him before, and in each one, he reminds me of a bulldog with a scowl, ready to leap toward an intruder as long as his chain will let him.
A tall, thin man beside the DA spots us. “The Assistant DA.” Jordan gives him a nod, which the Assistant DA returns with a raised brow. The lawyers seem to bridge the gap between the cop side of the ball and the civilians. Unlike the cops, the lawyers are all holding drinks and look way more at ease.
“Did you have to invite them?” I murmur, and Jordan snorts.
“A necessary evil.” He steers me toward a cluster of important-looking people. Men in suits with watches that cost more than what I make in a year. Women with diamond-encrusted clutches and smooth, ageless faces. Jordan stops to shake a few hands but doesn’t bother to introduce me. I’m suddenly forgotten, aimless and happy to be out of the spotlight but standing awkwardly to the side, grateful that my black clutch gives me something to do with my hands. Jordan turns away from me, and I take a moment to press hard on my hip, savoring the bright shock of pain that keeps things in sharp focus.
That’s when I hear him. At first, I think I’m dreaming and that I’ve lost grip on the here and now. That I’m back in the private room at Club Empire, pressing myself to the St. Andrew’s Cross. Giving myself over completely to my mystery Dom.
But no. Someone jostles me. “Excuse you,” she says in a drunken slur. High-pitched laughter sounds from her shrieking friends. I barely notice. I push past them all, heading toward that voice, velvet and steel, a hard hand in a sleek leather glove, stroking down my sides. . .
It’s him. The dom. Standing a few feet away from me, larger than life. I know it’s him, although he’ll need to speak again for me to be sure.
He’s as tall as I imagined, with thick, dark hair several days past due for a haircut. A little unruly for the boardroom, but it suits him. This is a man who cannot be contained. It’s easy to picture him half-naked, swinging a giant sword. A warrior, a gladiator, and not even the expensive wool of his tailored suit can civilize him.
He turns in a fluid motion as if he can sense my stare. The movement causes the massive muscles under his tux to shift.
He has the face of an emperor, the good looks that come from wealth and breeding with beauty generation after generation.
His eyes snap to mine, and the impact of his dark gaze punches through me. I freeze like a gazelle trapped by a lion, staring down her impending doom. My world shifts so he’s at the center of it. The rest of the room has faded away.
“There you are,” Jordan says, and I startle, trying to pull myself back so I can fake some semblance of normalcy around my boss. But there’s no need; Jordan isn’t speaking to me.
“We were looking for you.” Jordan heads over to the man, and they shake hands. After a glance at Jordan, the man looks straight back at me.
“You found me.” Gods, his voice. Deep and resonant, pulling me under. I feel it all over my body like a touch. On my back, heating my skin over the luxurious fabric of my dress. At my hip and shoulders, awakening every spot the crop touched. Between my legs. . .
It is him. And from the way he’s looking at me, heat in his dark eyes and a satisfied twist to his lips, he knows I know, too.