Chapter Twenty-Six Violet #2
I felt the exact moment his control shattered.
A deep, guttural roar erupted from him, a sound that was half my name, half a curse.
His hand flew to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair to keep me where I was.
And when the first hot, salty spurt of his orgasm hit the back of my throat, I swallowed convulsively.
Once, and then twice, his cock pulsed and jerked, lathering my throat with his release.
It was thick and hot, and God, there was so much of it.
I kept sucking, milking him through every shuddering wave, until he was spent and his erection was softening in my mouth.
With one last lick to his crown, I pulled back, and he slumped against the counter in complete, utter surrender.
All because of me.
I stayed on my knees, looking up at him, my breath coming in ragged pulls, my face slick with his cum and my spit. My lips felt swollen and abused in the best of ways. The frantic drumming in my veins had quieted.
The world—my world—was still a disaster outside, but here, on my knees, I felt utterly, perfectly in control.
“That was . . .” he breathed, not finishing his sentence. Grayson ran a hand over his lips, his mouth slack from his post-orgasmic release. He pulled his clothes on, adjusted everything so he looked polished, collected, and in control once again. He shook his head and bent to help me off the floor.
I still hadn’t moved, and when he reached out and ran his thumb along my bottom lip, gathering a drop of his semen at its corner, I sucked in a breath. He pushed his thumb into my mouth, and while we stared into each other’s eyes, I sucked, cleaning it off.
“Perfect,” he whispered. With one more exhale, Grayson straightened. “I have a lot of stuff to do with the case.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
Before he left, he checked the room and then the locks.
I glanced out the window, seeing two agents in a parked cruiser at the curb.
One climbed out and headed to the front door, and when Grayson opened it, he briefed the other man in a voice too low for me to make out.
When he shut the door and came back to me, he cupped both sides of my face and pressed his mouth to my hairline.
“I hate that I have to go,” he said.
“Me too,” I answered.
He hesitated another beat, as if there was something he wanted to say, but the silence stretched out between us. With a long exhale and one more kiss to my lips, he left, and I was alone in a house that seemed far too big and empty.
I did mindless things the rest of the day, laundry and cleaning, before finally making some tea and taking it to the living room.
I sat in my tattered chair in the corner and stared at the blinds, listening to the occasional sound of a car passing, a dog barking, the soft clinking of a neighbor’s wind chime.
I thought about the interrogation, about the braided cord around Agent Landry’s neck. A gift from my kid, she’d said even though I hadn’t asked.
My phone buzzed with a message, pulling me from my thoughts.
Harper: Hey. How are you?
Me: Hi. I’m okay. Just trying to de-stress at home.
Harper: I just got off the phone with the cops. I’m supposed to go in after work to talk to them. I have no idea what the hell is going on.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. I didn’t want to go into all this right now, but Harper was the closest thing to a friend I had.
Me: They found something in my backyard last night. I just got home from the station answering their questions. I’m sure they just want to ask people close to me. They’re just piecing things together.
Three dots pulsated as she typed. Vanished. Came back.
Harper: Okay. I won’t ask what they found because I assume you would have told me if you wanted me to know.
I smirked, picturing Harper’s sassy tone as she said that.
Harper: Well I’ll let you know what they say to me.
I was seconds from replying when a call came through, this one from an unknown number. My heart started racing. I didn’t answer, telling myself maybe it was just an officer at the station, but in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t.
I let it ring out. A second later, a call came through again. This time I answered with shaky fingers.
“Hello?” My voice was low, breathy from my anxiety. No one answered, and instead all I heard was static. Then someone breathing. “Who’s there?” My voice came out stronger, angrier.
“Vienna.”
Every part of me froze at the sound of that voice.
Then it was my birth name filling my head that made the room close in on me.
“W-who is this?” But I knew. I curled a hand into a tight fist, my fear morphing into rage.
I was sick of this shit. “Coward,” I hissed.
“You’re nothing but a fucking coward. The hearts, the blocked numbers, the stalking. Nothing but weak. The lot of you.”
Silence.
I disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto the coffee table like it had teeth. I stood and paced, bit my nails, worrying about everything. I didn’t text Grayson about it—I couldn’t keep dumping every terrifying moment on him, not when he was already carrying the weight of the case.
Outside, the cruiser sat still and seemingly harmless. A car passed. Someone walked their dog. The world hadn’t changed its routine. Yet evil still lurked.
“Grayson,” I whispered, wanting him and hating that I did. I went back to doing busywork to keep my mind off things.
The cruiser outside hadn’t moved, and I felt both threatened and relieved by its presence. I didn’t want to feel like I was being watched or monitored, but I felt safer knowing law enforcement was close.
I looked out the window again. Both officers sat still inside the vehicle, shaded by the roof of the car, one with his head tipped back like he was half dozing. I told myself that meant they were relaxed, that nothing was wrong. It calmed me marginally.
But then I heard a loud pop, and confusion over what it was had me scanning the neighborhood. I saw a blur of motion in my periphery, but when I looked in that direction, it was gone. And then shit hit the fan when two hoodie-shrouded men rushed the cruiser.
The first one swung something heavy straight into the driver-side window.
Glass exploded inward with a sharp crash, the sound punching through the quiet morning like a gunshot.
The officer inside jerked, reaching for his radio or his weapon, but the second man was already there, arm snaking through the shattered opening to pop the lock from the inside. The door flew open a second later.
I was frozen with my mouth slack as I watched the hooded men rip the officer from the seat and throw him to the ground. I couldn’t see clearly what was happening, but when I saw the glint of a knife in the sunlight, I screamed.
The officers had no time for self-defense as the men delivered an onslaught of violence. It all happened so fast it felt like it was over in a few blinks.
By the time my brain caught up, both hooded men were gone. The car doors were open, the police officers’ bodies slumped, lifeless and so goddamn bloody.
And then the figures rounded the side of the house, and I gasped audibly. One of the men I recognized instantly, even with his hood up. I could see part of his bald head under the material. He held a knife, blood dripping from the blade. He looked right at me, gaze flat and hollow.
Slow and deliberate, he lifted the blade and pointed it at me. I staggered backward, choking on my breath. Then, a loud thud on the front door, the vibration carrying through the floorboards to where I stood.
Another thud, closer this time, heavy like boots landing after a jump.
I bolted for the kitchen, yanking a knife from the butcher block. I knew it wouldn’t save me if it came to it, but I felt safer holding its weight in my hand. My breath was ragged, shallow, and too loud in the quiet house. Until I heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.
My pulse raced frantically in my throat. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head. My body was already moving, charging toward the back of the house. A black hoodie-covered arm snaked from the outside in as he went for the lock.
Before my brain caught up, I sliced into his hand, opening the skin. His pain-filled grunt answered on the other side.
“Leave me the hell alone!” I screamed.
The front-door attacker must have fled when I screamed; the one at the back yanked his arm out and vanished. I was alone—truly alone—but the lingering menace clung to the air like smoke.
I crept slowly, quietly, until I could look around the corner. I tried to calm my breathing. The sun slanted across the kitchen floor in neat golden stripes. I glanced over my shoulder to the door, making sure the man wasn’t trying to get back in.
A look at the front door showed it was still locked. But when I looked into the kitchen again, I saw the window wide open. On the counter sat a Polaroid.
With my free hand, I reached out with shaky fingers and picked it up. I stared at the picture in horror. There I stood in my kitchen, the curtains briefly parted as I’d peered out earlier that morning.
I didn’t know the exact time it was taken, but I knew it couldn’t have been long ago. I spun, knife trembling, eyes darting across every corner of the room. Nothing but sunlight and kitchen furniture visible. But the sense of being watched—of someone having just been here—made my skin crawl.
With fumbling fingers I groped for my phone, dialed 911. I sank down on the chair, the cell still pressed to my ear, knife in my other hand. The operator’s calm voice cut through the roar in my head, telling me units were en route.
But the wolves were closing in.
And I wasn’t going to keep them at bay.