Chapter 15 #2
While I may not have the warmest feelings when it comes to Cormac, something dark and primal crawls under my skin at the blatant threat to his life.
And this cop feels safe enough to openly admit he wants him dead.
Besides the moral ramifications, the legal ones are astronomical.
His saying that to me alone guarantees that if Cormac were ever caught for something again, this guy's recklessness would have him back on the street before even getting to trial.
“I have no idea where he is.” At least that part is the truth. Could be at Mingle, but I have no way of knowing.
“No?” he raises a brow, “I just checked that cute little bar he owns, but no luck. You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
Fear trickles into my bloodstream, and not the fun kind that makes my heart flutter and my cheeks heat. This fear runs into my stomach, making my skin grow cold, all the blood rushing to my chest, preparing to run or fight. Not only does he know about Mingle, but he’s been there.
“I’m sure,” I fiddle with my keys, debating where it’s better to squeeze past him to lock myself into my apartment or just abandoning it altogether and heading back somewhere public. “Sorry, Officer.”
“Brigit,” my name drips with condescension from his mouth, “Can I call you Brigit?”
“No.”
He hmms, the sound full of rotten disapproval. “Miss Danaan, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Cormac is a dangerous man.”
“Like I said,” I drop my keys into my bag, deciding if he won’t leave it alone, I’ll just walk away. “I’ve seen the news.”
Before I get two steps away, his clammy hand wraps around my bicep, stopping me from retreating.
“I’m just here as a courtesy,” he says, not fucking courteously at all. “With a warning.”
I stare wordlessly at his dirty hand and chipped fingernails as they dig into my upper arm, sending him a look over my shoulder so cold it could freeze hell over.
“Someone as dangerous as Mr. Fomori… well, usually that danger follows them home. Along with their loved ones.” He glances back at my door to make it clear he knows exactly which one is mine.
Though I didn’t need that message, I knew it the second he was in my hallway.
“I’d hate for you to get caught up in the mess he’s carrying with him. ”
“Let. Go. Of me.” I bite out every syllable, not backing down or letting the discomfort of his too-tight grip show on my face.
Before I can dump the last of my coffee over his head for threatening me and putting his fucking hands on me, he finally drops his arm, holding up both hands.
Backing up towards the corner, he finally puts some space between us. “I gotta give it to Cormac,” he comments, pausing halfway around the corner to give me a slow once-over, his eyes slithering against my skin. “He’s got a type.”
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a response. I don’t have to reveal that anything happened. As far as he’s concerned, I don’t even know Cormac.
He laughs, “Yeah, he was fucking his last lawyer, too. Keep that in mind next time he tries to charm his way into your pants.”
Now I don’t have to respond. The disgusted expression must be written all over my face if his smug grin is any indication.
With that, he disappears out of my sight, and I finally take my first real breath since he put himself in my path.
Shaking the tension from my body, I dig my keys back out and let myself into the apartment, half expecting Cormac to be in there waiting for me again. But it’s eerily silent, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved to not have to face him right now.
It was hard enough looking him in the eye to discuss the contract after his fingers had been inside of me. In the bright light of day with a completely sober mind, I don’t think I could take the embarrassment of remembering how I writhed on his hand and screamed into his palm.
Not to mention the immense displeasure I’m feeling now at that little tidbit of info the cop dropped. Didn’t bother to tell me his name, but he was only too happy to try to sabotage whatever he thinks Cormac and I have.
Which is, I repeat, nothing.
I was just in an impossible scenario, my desire and fear used against me until I was lost to all of it, the threat of a knife on my skin stopping me from daring to protest.
The moment he told me to sit, I obeyed, and when he urged my legs open without uttering a single word, I allowed it. I should have stopped him, yes. That goes without saying.
But I couldn’t.
The words wouldn’t come out.
Everything inside of me had frozen under his touch.
Does that mean it was against my will?
Letting a serial killer run his blade near vital arteries is a level of stupidity that goes past recklessness and well into suicidal. And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s reckless.
But his not allowing me the room to protest gave me a sense of freedom from the guilt of making that choice.
I had to sit and behave and take every ounce of pleasure he wanted to dole out.
The legality of whether it was consensual or not is black and white. But does that mean my feelings about it need to be?
That’s an impossible ask. There’s no way to be black and white when it comes to the overwhelming presence of Cormac Fomori.
He consumes me the moment he appears. His dark strength, the blazing heat in his eyes, the barely veiled wonder in them whenever he looks at me, I’m powerless against the force of nature that he is.
There was a sense of certainty in all of it. I knew he would push past my boundaries, and I knew I would love every second. It was almost a comfort. A feeling of belonging to him, of the rigid rules I’ve set in place mattering less than the magnetic pull between us.
Setting my purse onto the counter, I decide against pulling out my computer again. If I were to let myself log on, there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’d spend the next hour googling the man in question, searching for proof of what the officer said.
It’s not like I’m jealous.
But the idea that he sleeps with his lawyers is an ethical nightmare. It would put his legal representative into a power imbalance that no one with any sense would sign up for.
And is that all he was trying to do with me when he offered me a job?
Is that all he’s doing now? Pulling me further and further into his seedy, violent life until I’m trapped there, keeping him and his company from legal trouble under the threat of going down with them?
Or worse. Becoming so entangled in their fucking crimes that I do end up dead because of them.
Lying my head on the cool marble countertop, I heave out an exasperated sigh.
He knows I can’t press charges for the breaking and entering, for the threats of violence, or for anything in between.
Can’t even tell them that he admitted to killing those people.
And he knew it from the second he broke in, he just kept the fucking game going, keeping all the cards he held secret while he toyed with me.
My stomach sours, anger and fear warring with humiliation as I recall all of our interactions through the lens of what I know now.
Regardless of my body’s stupid lustful thoughts, this fuckery ends now.
I am 100% done dealing with Cormac Fomori. If he feels the need to keep an eye on me, that’s between him and his own paranoia. I don’t need to do anything to make it easier for him.
Finally doing what I should have done weeks ago, I order the security cameras and door alarms, determined to set them up the second they arrive.
100%. Done.