Chapter Seven
Reid
Her house is just like her.
Sweet. Harmless. A fuck-you lullaby in drywall form.
What will I find when I step inside?
Evidence, probably.
Proof she killed Tammy Walters.
Maybe proof she’s involved with Oksana’s operation.
That’s what I tell myself.
Truth?
I just want to know everything about her.
I park a block away and stroll down the back alley.
Our files say she’s at work today. Her boyfriend Orion? At the gym. Callum? Fuck only knows. Third man? Elliot Sterling. He’s on campus, working.
The outer gate isn’t locked.
House is big. Do they all live here? Some crime family?
Breaking and entering.
Can’t justify this as case work.
No search warrant.
The back door is locked. No exterior cameras.
All the windows are locked.
No problem.
Less than five minutes, I’ve picked the lock.
No alarm.
It’s fucking nice inside.
Spacious. Lots of pink and soft colors.
Smells like her. Vanilla, heat, temptation.
And men. Plural.
A bouquet of colognes and testosterone.
I don’t go into the bedrooms. That’s where I’d lose the plot and start thinking with the wrong head.
And I need at least one functioning brain cell left.
I check the kitchen instead.
Clean, organized. Coffee maker still warm. Mug in the sink. Pink. A crack down one side, like it’s been dropped but not discarded.
Sentimental. Interesting.
Refrigerator’s stocked. Fresh fruit. Too many energy drinks. Condiments in labeled bins. Who the fuck organizes condiments?
There’s a board on the wall. White. Magnetic. Little pink star-shaped magnets. Meal planning. Notes. Schedules.
“Callum – laundry. Fold it this time.”
Jesus Christ. She’s domesticated a monster.
“Elliot: Stop deleting my songs off the speaker queue.”
Battle of the playlists. Cute. Vomit-worthy.
“Noah’s night – bring snacks.”
Who the fuck is Noah and why does he get a whole night?
There’s a tiny Polaroid tucked into the top frame.
Juliet, middle of the kitchen, barefoot and smiling, biting into a strawberry. One of the men is in the background. Blurry. Not one of the three I’ve seen.
Must be Noah.
I take it. Evidence, I tell myself.
Truth: I’m keeping score like a jealous ex I’ve never actually dated.
Because who the fuck is he and how many damn men does this woman have in her kitchen?
I move to the hall.
Closet, bathroom, linen storage.
The bedrooms have nameplates.
Absurd ones.
Orion’s is carved wood shaped like a barbell.
Subtle as a sledgehammer.
Noah’s has musical notes burned into it, chaotic and scattered like he couldn’t commit to a key.
Elliot’s… I lean in. Is that a whip?
Jesus.
Callum’s is the worst. Cutesy fucking skulls, glitter-painted, one with a bow. Serial killer daycare aesthetic.
There’s two unmarked rooms.
Made-up. Unnerving.
Guest rooms dressed like hotel sets.
Beds turned down. Drawers empty.
No dust.
Like they’re waiting.
For who?
I step into the first.
Crisp sheets. Spare everything.
No smell, no presence.
No her.
And still.
How the fuck do I get my name on one of these doors?
Maybe a pair of handcuffs carved into wood?
A badge?
A fucking wanted poster?
What the fuck is wrong with me.
Second room’s the same.
Ghost space. Staged vacancy.
The next door’s pink.
Not pastel. Not sweet.
Aggressively pink. Hearts on it. Puffy foam sticker kind.
I step inside. My blood relocates south. No survivors.
The bed’s enormous. Center of the room like an altar built for sin.
The dresser is cluttered with bottles. Lube, oils, sprays. Half-used. Different viscosities. One of them smells like strawberries. Another chocolate.
Restraints hang from the headboard.
Silk. Leather. Velcro.
Options.
Blindfolds.
A crop.
A riding crop.
I imagine her here.
Tied to that headboard.
Blindfolded.
Begging.
Which one of them uses the crop?
I want it to be me.
I back out, blood roaring in my cock, my jaw, my fucking fingerprints.
Last door.
End of the hall.
A princess crown stuck to it crooked.
Sparkles catching the light like tiny knives
Glitter. Pink. A puffy cartoon sticker that says “PRIVATE” in bubble letters.
Bait.
I shouldn’t touch the handle.
I do anyway.
It’s locked.
The only locked door in the house.
My pulse does something stupid.
My dick does worse.
I kneel. Tools out.
Heart pounding like this is still a mission and not a full psychotic break dressed in tactical gear.
The lock clicks.
I push the door open and immediately register the mistake.
The place smells like sugar, sin, and something I want to lick off her thighs.
Center of the room is a bed. Circular. Covered in plush pink sheets.
Full canopy. Ribbons. Lace. String lights.
A teenage fantasy corrupted by an adult with dangerous ideas.
I imagine tossing her on the bed, yanking off that pink bra she’d admired. The one I bought. Along with the panties.
The set in my jacket pocket.
There’s a vanity in the corner.
Mirror surrounded by lights.
Makeup scattered across the surface.
Pink lipstick. Half-used.
I pick it up.
Imagine it smeared across her mouth after I kiss her.
I twist it up. Swipe my tongue across the tip. Taste it. Her lips.
I catch my reflection.
Look out of place.
And totally at home.
Dangerous combination.
In the other corner there’s a desk.
I cross the room.
Sit in her chair.
Imagine her crawling across my lap. Ripe, pink, and ready to be fucked stupid.
I pull out a journal.
Orion Grayson’s name is doodled like a teenager crushing on a warlord.
I scan the pages. There are extensive notes. Like she cased him.
Stalked him.
Learned everything about him before she made her move.
Beast. Protector. 8/10 table manners. 10/10 arms. Snores softly when exhausted. Likes to be blindfolded. Would die for me.
And there it is.
A Tammy confession.
Hidden in the margins.
Casual. Like she’s noting what groceries to buy.
“Handled the ex. No more interruptions.”
Jesus.
Fuck.
She did it.
She actually did it.
And I’m so hard I can barely think.
I flip open another. It’s huge.
Noah Carter.
The notes are detailed. Two notebooks.
He was her first.
Poet. Romantic. 9/10 table manners. Makes me feel precious. Cries during sex. Good tears. Would write me a song about murder.
Oh my God.
She broke into his house.
Drugged him.
Stole his passwords.
Made herself indispensable before he even knew she existed.
This woman is a fucking predator.
And I want to be her prey.
I flip to the next one. Elliot’s.
Sir. Refined. 10/10 table manners. Ties me up. Calls me baby doll. Probably into taxes. Would hide a body for me.
I’m hard.
I absolutely should not be.
But here we are.
The next notebook is Callum’s.
I laugh out loud.
Actually laugh.
Because Callum Anderson, career criminal and general menace, fucked up her entire process.
Didn’t let her stalk him properly.
Just... existed at her.
And she kept him anyway.
Dick and tattoos erased that flaw.
She’s deranged.
I need her to want me like this.
I open the next notebook.
No name.
Just notes.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“A sexy intense man at the mall.”
That’s me.
She’s talking about me.
My goddamn plate number is scribbled in the margin.
My coffee order is wrong, but she’s trying.
“Hands: capable, scarred. Want them on my throat.”
I sit back.
Chest tight.
Cock aching.
I’m pathetically thrilled.
She noticed me.
She wants me.
She’s stalking me.
And I’ve never been this turned on in my life.
I close it fast.
Grab the next.
Vitaly.
My breath comes out in a loud sigh.
Relief. Pure fucking relief.
She’s not connected to the money laundering.
She’s stalking him.
Just like she stalked the others.
Just like she’s stalking me.
My cock fights to get out of my zipper as I read about her and his washcloth.
About her in his shower.
Fucking herself with something he touched.
This woman is going to own me.
And I’m going to let her.
I glance back at my notebook.
Take it? Leave it?
I pull out the panties. Keep the bra in my pocket.
Pull out a glitter pen and under her notes about my capable hands and observant eyes, I add:
You missed something. I take my coffee black. And I like to be watched too. - R
Then I sit there.
Staring at what I just wrote.
Realizing I just left a love note for a woman I’m supposed to be investigating.
I’m so fucked.
I use the panties to mark the page.
Pink lace against pink paper.
A little gift. A little threat.
All I’ve just read says she likes to play predator.
Sees stalking as courtship.
Obsession as love.
Fine.
I can play that game.
I add a heart next to my initial.
Fuck it.
Welcome to being a switch, sweetheart.
Your move.
Before I leave, I stop at her vanity.
I slip one of her pink hair ties over my wrist.
A trophy. A warning. A promise.
I have work to do.
If Vitaly is tied up with Oksana, I need to get between them before Juliet gets hurt.
Before she does something that forces me to arrest her.
Or worse.
I need to solve this case. Take down Oksana. Protect Vitaly.
And make sure Juliet Lovelace never has to choose between love and murder again.
We have one thing in common.
I protect what’s mine.
She’s mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.