Chapter Eighteen
Reid
I slide into the driver’s seat and the air hits me like a hand around the throat.
Thick. Sweet. Her. My cock knows before my brain does.
Twitches the second the scent hits.
There’s a teddy bear. Mine, indeed.
Fucking rose?
And breath mints.
Then I see black lace. Folded like a love letter between the pages of the Juliet notebook. The one I keep in the console when I’m not actively losing my mind over her.
She was here. In my space.
Reading every deranged page while I sat twenty feet away eating a goddamn burger like an idiot.
I flip to the last page and there’s her handwriting, looping, lethal.
Dinner. Trattoria on Main. Wednesday 7.
I press the lace to my face before I can stop myself.
Inhale like a junkie.
She’s soaked through them.
She came in my fucking car while she read how many nights I’ve watched her sleep.
My hands shake on the wheel.
This is past the point of no return.
Hell, I think we blew past that sign weeks ago and neither of us slowed down.
I’m a detective with an open IA file, a badge I’ve already pissed on a hundred times, and a fixation that could end with my body in a shallow grave or my soul in her hands.
And I’m still walking into that fucking restaurant Wednesday night, wearing the cuffs she wants.
I’m going to let her ruin me in front of her whole unhinged little harem if that’s what it takes.
Because the alternative is never touching her.
Never knowing how tight she is when she finally says my name like she owns it.
And I can’t do that.
I start the car with the panties still pressed to my nose like a fucking psycho.
Wednesday can’t come fast enough.
I’m already hers. We all have to survive long enough to prove it.
I work the rest of my shift, thinking it over.
But her note was right. “…we both know you’ve already chosen.”
I slam the apartment door so hard the chain rattles. Deadbolt. Second deadbolt.
I toss the bear on the couch.
The rose beside it.
The Juliet notebook hits the coffee table with a thud that feels final.
I open it like I’m defusing a bomb I want to go off.
Page after page of them.
Her monsters. My monsters now, apparently.
Callum Anderson: Suspected in eight disappearances, zero bodies. Photos of him carrying duffels that were never the same shape twice. Killed Adam.
Orion Grayson: No priors. Hard ass. Security guard. Gym beast. Killed Adam.
Elliot Sterling: No priors. Goddamn therapist.
Noah Carter: No priors. Pretty, smiling Noah. Plays guitar. Makes coffee and worked at a fucking café before the bakery.
Vitaly Volkov: No priors. Launders money for Oksana. Under duress.
Juliet Lovelace: No priors. Suspect. No proof. She killed Tammy Walters.
Callum strong-armed the witness. Case closed.
Page after page I wrote like a good little detective. Timelines. Connections. Enough to bury Callum for three lifetimes.
I wrote it all while jerking off to the idea of her thanking me for it.
And now?
Now I’m going to burn it. Or swallow it. Or tattoo it on my chest so every time she rides me she can read exactly how far I’ve fallen.
Because the alternative is turning them in. Turning her in.
I laugh until it sounds like something breaking.
I’m a cop. I’ve got a badge that still opens doors, an IA file that’s one bad day from swallowing me whole, and a fixation that makes me a liability. I’ve spent four years pretending I’m one of the good ones while I looked the other way for cash.
But this? This is the line.
And I’m not just crossing it. I’m torching the fucking bridge.
I flip to the first blank page and start writing. Fast, messy, honest for the first time in years.
Reasons I should arrest them all:
The law
My oath
The bodies
Reasons I won’t:
Her mouth
The way she looked at me when she stole that onion ring like she was stealing my soul and I handed it over gift-wrapped
The fact that I came in my fist the second I smelled her on those panties
I tear the old pages out one by one.
I feed them to the kitchen sink and light a match.
The flames curl blue and hungry, eating every name except hers.
When it’s done I’m shaking. Hard.
I pick up the panties again, still carrying the proof that she came while reading how obsessed I am.
I press them to my face and inhale until my lungs burn.
Cop or hers?
There’s no contest.
I choose hers.
I choose her.
Whatever’s left of me after Wednesday night, she can have it. The badge, the gun, the last shred of whatever the fuck I used to be.
I’ll protect them. All of them.
Because they’re hers.
And I’m hers.
And that’s the only law I give a shit about anymore.
I’m still standing in the kitchen, panties in one fist, lighter in the other, when the burner in my desk buzzes.
Unknown number. One line.
Volkov payment 30 days late. Dmitry moving tonight. Bakery.
My blood turns to ice water.
Vitaly.
I’m still in the suit I wore to pretend I’m a good cop today. Shoulder holster, badge on my belt like a joke.
I snatch my keys.
The ridiculous teddy bear is still on the couch, heart stitched in glitter. I shove it under my arm like a hostage. Because if I’m about to cross the final line, I want something soft and stupid to witness it.
I hit the street doing eighty in a school zone, cherry lights flashing, because fuck every red light between me and her.
Bakery’s dark except the low prep lights in the back. No Vitaly silhouette in the window. No Juliet riding him against the mixer.
My stomach drops.
I kill the engine two blocks down, slip into the shadows between buildings.
The tavern across the street is thumping bad techno, drunks spilling onto the sidewalk.
Perfect cover.
I circle to the alley behind the bakery.
And there he is.
Dmitry Krestov, six-three of Russian murder, leaning against the back door like he owns the night. Silencer already screwed on the Glock in his hand.
He spots me before I speak.
“Calloway,” he says, lazy smile, dead eyes. “Nosy cop.”
I keep both hands visible. “Heard the donuts are good. Cop tradition.”
He pushes off the wall, circling. “Pretty thing, the baker’s girl. The one you follow like a dog.” He taps the silencer against his thigh. “Oksana says back off. Shame if something happened to Juliet’s pretty face.”
Her name in his mouth is a detonator.
I draw left-handed, practice range weirdness nobody ever expects, and put two suppressed rounds center-mass before he finishes the sentence.
The Glock drops. He looks down at the holes blooming red on his white shirt like he’s surprised flowers can grow there.
Third round, bridge of the nose.
He folds straight down, knees first.
Hits the ground hard.
Face slack.
Blood blooming slow.
Silence except the tavern bass across the street.
I stand over him. Chest heaving. Gun still up.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
My hands don’t shake.
They should.
They’re supposed to.
First kill outside the job, outside the lines, outside anything that resembles moral cover, and my pulse is steady.
Too steady.
I look down at him and wait for something human to spark.
Fear.
Regret.
Guilt.
Nothing.
Just a cold, clean click deep in my chest. A lock sliding open.
I realize I wanted this.
Not the kill.
The cut.
The line snapping.
The moment I stop pretending I’m anything but what Juliet already sees.
I’m not horrified.
I’m… relieved.
Relieved it’s done.
Relieved it was easy.
Relieved that the part of me that was supposed to scream didn’t even clear its throat.
Somewhere between round one and round three, the version of me IA still believes in died on this pavement with him.
I exhale once, slow, final.
Then I holster the gun, crouch, and grab him by the collar.
Decision made.
I just killed someone.
For her. For them. For the choice I made the second I saw her break into his house.
This feels like the first honest thing I’ve done in years.
I drag him deeper into the alley, prop him behind the dumpster. Wipe the silencer on his own jacket, unscrew it, pocket it. Shell casings go in my pocket too.
I walk away before the blood finishes spreading.
No sirens. No witnesses. Just a dead Russian, and a teddy bear with a heart that finally tells the truth.
I look at the teddy bear sitting in the passenger seat like a fucking talisman.
Its glitter heart catches the streetlight: MINE.
Yeah. She is.
I pull out the burner.
Me: Bakery’s safe. I have a Dmitry shaped disposal issue.
Callum: You want me alone or with Orion?
An hour later, I’m at Callum’s warehouse.
It smells like concrete and bleach. Orion and Callum are already there with a tarp and a specialized cooler. No questions. No hesitation.
“Nice work,” Callum says. “She’s going to love that we’re working together. Big trust fall energy.”
Orion wraps Dmitry’s body like laundry. “Oksana’s going to know something happened.”
“Let her wonder,” I say. “She moves against us again, I put a bullet in her skull and file the paperwork myself.”
“I don’t give a shit how Wednesday goes. I’m keeping you.” Callum grins.
“Yeah, you’re ours now,” Orion says. “So don’t chew with your mouth open. That’s a deal breaker.”
“Good table manners and stamina in bed,” Callum says and winks. “She’ll overlook a lot.”
“Let’s wrap this up. Detective Calloway has work tomorrow,” Orion says and pats my arm.
I do. Still have my badge. And a family that has my ass.
The apartment is dead quiet when I get back.
I lock the door.
Deadbolt.
Second deadbolt.
Shoulder against the frame like I expect Dmitry’s ghost to kick it in.
It’s 3:14 AM.
I stand there in the dark with the teddy bear still tucked under my arm and blood drying on my cuffs, and my brain finally catches up to what my body already did.
I killed a man.
Not with my badge.
Not with paperwork waiting in the wings.
No “fear for my life.”
No departmental shield.
I killed him because he said Juliet’s name.
The thought should gut me.
Should tear something loose inside.
But all I feel is… quiet.
A deep, cold quiet that slides into me like a new spine.
This is who I am now.
No. This is who I’ve always been, and I just stopped pretending otherwise.
I drop the teddy bear on the counter.
The glitter heart flashes back at me like it’s laughing.
I’m scared for half a second.
Not of prison.
Not of IA.
Of how right it felt.
How the part of me that should be unraveling just… isn’t.
I wash my hands.
Scrub under my nails.
Watch a pink swirl rinse into the drain.
And I swear the man in the mirror looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.