Minka
MINKA
I wake the next morning and turn in Archer’s arms to look up at his handsome, sleeping face. I press a kiss to his nipple and slip my leg between his, all so I can rest my ear over his heart. Because being with him while he rests, when he’s at his most vulnerable, his lips pouty and thick and his long, long lashes, dark against his cheeks, is where I find the most peace.
It’s in these moments my love for him multiplies.
My heart squeezes and my core tightens. Because when he’s awake, his entire focus is on taking care of me. It’s about making sure I’m happy, making sure I’m safe. It’s about putting food in front of my face and gently patting my ass because he likes to tell me how wonderful I am at everything.
He’s the world’s most passionate hype man, seemingly created just for me, and despite the fact I couldn’t do the same for another human in return, he doesn’t tire of this task he gives himself.
He wants to take care of me. And though it took a while for me to adjust from an existence of hyper-independence, I can’t even say I dislike this new world order.
I like when he checks in on my eating habits. I love when he brings me water and stares until I drink it. And I absolutely adore that he cares that I’m happy.
Somehow, my contentment is his contentment.
There are certainly worse ways to live.
I trail my fingertips along his flesh and stroke the tattooed lines of his ribs, pleasure rumbling through my veins because, even while he sleeps, his lips curl into a sweet smile. “Mmm.” He groans, goosebumps sprinting along his bare skin. “Feels good.”
“You awake?” I don’t know what time it is. I can’t even remember what day it is. But I know it’s morning, if only because of the muted light filtering through the curtains at my back. Today is overcast and gray, which probably means snow will come later. But for as long as we’re in this room, in this bed, and no one else gets to encroach, none of that matters nearly as much as my want for this man.
“Archer?”
“Thank god you’re here with me.” Eyes closed, he slips his hand beneath my cami and drags it up, exposing my belly and breasts until my nipples peak from the cold and my toes curl with anticipation. He inches along the mattress, sliding beneath me and humming with pleasure. But it’s not until his tongue touches my flesh that my first sounds of ecstasy escape on a whisper. He tastes my neck. My clavicle. He takes my nipple between his lips and pins me to the bed when I would otherwise bound straight off.
I bite down on the cry that attempts to burst from my lips, crushing my eyes shut when tears spring free and tickle the corners. Then I sigh when he burrows under the covers and draws my panties along my legs. “You were so wiped out last night, I didn’t even have the heart to undress you.” He nips at the top of my thigh and pries my legs open, positioning himself between them and blowing warm air onto my core until my cry turns to a moan. “We went to bed together, but I swear, I felt like I came in here alone.”
He takes my clit between his lips and clears my mind of any coherent thought, captivating me in our world of just us-ness and refusing me freedom until, with just a single finger pushed into my pussy, I come on a quiet whimper of release .
Sometimes, we’re wild and loud and frenzied. Other times, we’re soft waves brushing against the coast.
“I love to drink you up,” he groans, replacing his digit with his tongue and lapping at every drop of release I give. “It’s my favorite way to start the day.”
“Archer…” Breathing heavily, I set my feet on his shoulders and lift my hips from the bed because pleasure ripples in my veins like tiny sparks of electricity. “God.”
“I love you.” He bites my clit and inserts two fingers, drawing me closer to another release. “I love you so fucking much. It makes me sick in my stomach when you’re not here.”
“Come here.” I reach under the blankets and snag the wedding band hung around his neck. A gift from me, after his gift of forever. Tugging on it, though carefully, I drag him along my body and groan when his cock nestles between my thighs. “I want to come with you inside me.”
“Mm.” He fists his cock and slides the tip through my folds, collecting moisture and taunting us both with what could be. Then, without words, without any of the usual filth he speaks when we’re together, he slips inside and captures my lips with his, swallowing every sound I make. My breath. My pleasure. And then he rolls his hips and leads us on a journey of us . “So fucking tight.” He nibbles on my lip and nips at my chin. My neck.
I tip my head back to give him room to suckle at my flesh. “So good.” I fist the sheets and open my legs impossibly wide to allow him closer. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” He glides over my body, dragging me toward my peak, his perfect scent filling my lungs and, magically, his very presence, emptying my mind. “Love you forever. You’re my penguin.”
W aking without taking stock of anything outside my room is a blessing.
Dissociation, too, is a gift.
Showering with my husband is a bonus, but just as soon as I leave the safety of the steam-filled bathroom, with fresh clothes on and my hair wrapped in a towel, I make the mistake of turning left, toward the living room, instead of right, toward my bedroom.
Reality slams down on me the way anvils took out Wile E. Coyote.
I skid to a stop on the hardwood flooring, my socks almost being the reason I end up on my ass, then I press a hand to my belly when nausea decimates the pleasure I began my day with. My head swims and anger roars in my veins, not because of the man-boy sleeping on my couch, with one leg on the coffee table and both arms somehow on the floor. I don’t even care about his stinky gym bag strewn on the kitchen counter or the shoes and socks tossed by the front door.
Cato Malone is a messy house guest who simply won’t go away, and yet, it’s the stack of case files neatly piled by the coffee machine that has fingers scraping along my throat and down to grab onto my heart.
I forgot.
For a single hour, while Archer feasted upon my body and brought ecstasy to my soul, I forgot about the floor that fell out from beneath my life yesterday. After years of silence on the Diane Philips case, I forgot about Janiesa Sawyer. Perhaps my forgetfulness was my subconscious protecting me for just a little longer. But now reality is back, and the happiness I woke with is nothing more than a long-ago dream.
While Archer goes to our room to finish preparing for his day, I move in silence and make my way toward the coffee machine. I could get here with no eyes, no ears, no sense of smell, and nothing to rely on except muscle memory. But I don’t snag a mug and set it beneath the spout like I do every other day of my life. Instead, I select the file on top, a pile Cato must’ve tidied and put aside so he could sleep, and open the manila cover to find Diane’s smiling face from more than twenty years ago.
Her toothy grin is like a punch to my gut, though I’ve seen this picture a million times in my life. I could draw her every freckle from memory. Every wispy strand of hair. I could trace the shape of her teeth, even the one missing, front and center, and I could almost taste, if only I allowed myself to do so, the sweet scent of her breath.
I just know she enjoyed candy before her life was torturously and terrifyingly stolen from her.
“I was thinking we could go out for breakfast,” Archer murmurs, wandering into the living room and completely blind to the way I jump from momentary fright. I swallow the sickly feeling that ‘ going out for breakfast ’ puts in my throat. The idea of eating makes me want to puke. The thought of sitting in a diner and laughing over scrambled eggs and coffee makes me want to scream.
“You need something with protein.” He moves to the door and collects his brother’s shoes, then the gym bag, before walking them to the couch so they’re out of our way. “Our machine coffee is good, but coffee from a restaurant is better. I could show you this place I haven’t taken you yet, and then I could drop you at work on my way to the station.”
I flick through the pile of files and search for Janiesa’s, pulling it out and setting it down beside Diane’s.
Two girls. Two photos, taken twenty-five years apart.
If Diane had lived, she would be old enough now to be Janiesa’s mother.
They look similar, though not the same. Both were five years old at the time these photos were taken, and both had lost their front tooth to the Tooth Fairy soon before.
I stroke Janiesa’s picture and lick my dry lips, knowing I should skip coffee altogether and opt for water. But it’s when Archer steps up behind me, his chest pressed to my back, that I close the files and lay my hand over my skittering heart.
“I was having a whole conversation with you, Mayet. But you keep getting sucked into this world.”
“I’m not?—”
“I’m gonna support you through this. I’ll call Soph and pull information from my contacts if I can, and I’ll feed them to you if I think it’ll help. But you need to figure out a way to extract yourself from this case, because if you’re not careful, it’s gonna eat you up and spit you out. ”
He places his hand on the back of my neck, wrapping his thumb and fingers around until he has a good grip, then he turns me, forcing my back to the files and my eyes up to his. “I need to know you’re going to be okay, because I know who you are beneath Chief M.E. Mayet. I know who you are when a man is out there hurting baby girls, and you feel you’re the only person on the planet who can make it better.”
“Archer…” That one word, two syllables, scratch along my throat like they’re made of sandpaper. “I don’t?—”
“You said you trust the detectives, right? And that the detective who was running the case before was solid. He’ll bring the history and experience, and Gibson will provide fresh eyes and energy.”
“Gilbert.” My stomach twists and my cheeks warm, but that’s better than feeling nothing. Or worse, despair. “Detective Gilbert.”
His lips curl into a playful grin. “Whatever. Old brains and new momentum will mean this asshole might’ve made his last mistake. Janiesa is gonna be brought home to her mom, and our perp will be torn the fuck up in prison, if he even makes it that far. I’m not above calling Micah once this all shakes out and asking him to spray for pests.”
“You’d ask Micah to…” Stunned surprise beats in my veins as I search his perfect emerald eyes. “You’d ask your brother to deal with him?”
“If it turns out the guy who took Janiesa is the same one who took Diane and all the others, then there isn’t a prison sentence good enough for him. In which case, we’ll have him dealt with on the front steps of the fucking courthouse, right where the judge can watch, extinguishing an existence that should have been swallowed by his mother.” He leans closer, setting his forehead on mine. “If it helps you eat and sleep and function again, then I’ll pick up my phone and make the order. But I need you eating and sleeping and functioning now , too. In the in-between, while the detectives are moving through the grunt work and patching together a case that spans two decades, I need you to be operational and okay, because if I think you’re not, then I’m calling in sick and babysitting your ass until the case is tied up.”
“I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m not even remotely close to the same neighborhood or decade as fine. But I lie to my husband’s face and force a small smile onto my lips.
“Old experience,” I parrot, “fresh eyes and energy. Janiesa will be the hero Diane and the others needed.”
“Exactly.” He cups my face, squeezing my cheeks until they intrude on my eyesight. “Wanna get breakfast with me at this place I know? Or would you rather choke down dry toast and strong coffee here?”
I want to say the first. I wish I could eat eggs and croissants and fill my belly with all sorts of nutritious things. But if I so much as look at a bowl of scramble and let the aroma hit my nose, I might make a mess of our table and upset the man who wants so desperately to wrap me up in a bubble.
So I choose the safer option, reaching out blindly and opening the cupboard door to snag the handle of a mug. “Coffee and toast here. But only because I don’t have time for anything more.”
Lies. Lies, so many lies.
“I have to get to the office and handoff with Patten.” Carefully extracting myself from his hold, I turn and place the mug under the coffee spout. But I’m not so scattered that I forget to grab a second and line it up so we both get caffeine. “Doctor Chase is understandably stressed right now, considering the HIV thing, and Patten is carrying that load on top of everything else.”
“Mmhm.” He doesn’t believe a damn word that leaves my mouth, but he encircles me with his arms and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “Fletch is on light duties till Captain Bower pulls him off. Which means I’m on light duties, too, since they won’t assign me a new partner, and they won’t send me out alone.”
“So you won’t catch a case?”
“We might.” He knocks the towel off my head and combs his fingers through my damp hair. “But we’re not on-call and we’re at the very bottom of a long list which means any fresh cases that roll through will be delegated elsewhere. Our only chance of heading out is if the whole fucking city loses its collective mind and everyone within it goes on a rampage.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen, then.” I stare down at the first mug of coffee and switch it for the second as soon as liquid touches the top lip. “So you’re on desk duty till he deems Fletch ready again?”
“We’ll do what we always do in these situations.” He spins me and takes the coffee before the scalding liquid stains both of our outfits. “We’ll start with the cases we already have, but haven’t closed. New eyes,” he clarifies. “New energy. We’ll see if we can knock something loose on one of those, and if not, then we’ll head on over to the cold case rack and pick something out that piques our interest.”
“Are you mad you’re on the bench when you’re neither injured nor in trouble?”
He sips and chuckles behind the mug. “My initial instinct is to be cranky, if only because reading old files makes me itchy. But Mia needs Fletch home at night right now, and he’s still healing from his bullet wound. This is best. Add in that my wife is about to lose her fucking shit and spiral into toxically unhealthy coping mechanisms, and I’ll be glad to have a little less on my plate.”
“I will not be toxic.” I roll my eyes and turn back for the second coffee. Plus, holding his gaze while I tell a bald-faced lie makes me feel gross. “It’s reasonable that yesterday’s revelation rocked me. It’s a trigger I clearly possess, one that hasn’t, and possibly won’t, ever heal. But coming home to read files is hardly heading onto the streets and slitting throats.”
“That’s called healing.” He smacks a kiss on my cheek and backs up to lean against the opposite counter. “Or delayed gratification. I haven’t decided yet.”
“You’re poking at me intentionally because you know if I lose my temper and snap back, we’ll get to fight, and maybe I’ll admit to feeling a little shaken right now.”
He kicks one foot over the other and enjoys his coffee. Seems this is our morning date. “Are you feeling shaken right now?”
“Of course I am.” I walk to the fridge and grab a carton of creamer, only to circle around and drop a dollop into his cup before heading back to mine. “This case has obviously been a massive influence in my life. It’s personal, when I was the same age as his first victim, and professional when one of his later victims ended up on my autopsy table. I essentially grew up alongside his crimes, aging, just like he did. Just like those girls should have. And then we add in the puzzle, since clearly, how he got away with this is nothing short of brilliant.”
“Or luck,” he counters easily. Arrogantly.
“Seventeen bodies is not luck. It’s carefully thought out. It’s stalking and plotting. It’s delicately picking the next target and thoroughly researching their lives. These weren’t chance abductions where any kid would do. These girls were all five years old. They all belonged to single mothers, and they all played in parks regularly enough for the killer to pinpoint their routines. There’s no luck here.”
I set the creamer down, but I hardly have the energy to pick up my mug. The thought of anything in my belly this morning, even coffee, makes my stomach ache.
“The only saving grace in all this is that the perp must have a connection to these kids. He must ,” I press, if only to convince myself. “For him to know them well enough to know their mothers’ marital statuses means their paths crossed at some point. Once the detectives find that crossover, it’ll all unravel.” Frustrated, I leave my coffee behind and snatch up the towel still on the floor. “I’m gonna go blow dry my hair. It’ll take me half an hour to get the moisture out enough that I don’t freeze on my way to work.”
“Mmhm.” He sips again and folds his arms, his head and body stock-still, but his eyes following my movements. “I’ll walk you to the office. I’ve got nowhere else I need to be until nine, so…”
So I don’t get to argue.
Got it.