Chapter 12 #3
Seven ear-screeching barks and nineteen attempts at tearing up my face later, I had the dog tied to one of the legs of the dining table right across the kitchen island.
With him finally tied up, I checked the tag on the collar and finally found out the name of my nemesis.
“Shadow, huh? You moved like one when you tore up my calf, didn’t you? Bad fucking boy. Just like his mommy.”
He growled at me, and I grabbed him a small treat. “Hush now. We won’t tell Mommy I was here…Unless she figures it out herself.”
Now that my hands were free, I grabbed the cameras and the recording devices I’d brought along with me from my bag and finally entered my little criminal’s bedroom, my wildcat’s lair.
It was fucking subdued. Unlike the mischievous glint in her eyes, this room had no spark. A huge computer system was set up in one corner of the room, and several photographs of Shadow littered her desk. None of them had her in them.
Was she that paranoid?
The bed wasn’t even made. It was as if she just rolled out of bed, thought who gives a fuck about making the bed if I have to get back in it again, and left it as is. Fucking monster.
My hands itched to straighten it up. I tightened my fist to stop myself from doing just that.
No evidence.
No evidence.
No. Fucking. Evidence.
Fuck it.
I grabbed the comforter, brought it to my nose, and took a sniff.
Midnight rain and dark blackberries exploded in my nose. My brain quieted, and for one insane second, I was tempted to get rid of all my clothes, dive under the fucking comforter, and rub myself like a fucking dog in heat.
With a sigh—because this was about recon, not stalking—I angrily folded the fucking comforter, righted the bedsheet, and fluffed the five fucking pillows strewn around the bed.
How long did that take me? Five minutes.
Ms. Vigilante is so busy killing off criminals that she can’t even make her own bed.
Fucking disgraceful.
Now that the eyesore of a mess was straightened, I grabbed the recording device and cameras that I’d placed on her table. I picked up the microcamera and twisted it around. Every part of my being wanted to tag every corner of this room with a camera.
But only one question looped in my logical brain. Is this stalking or reconnaissance? Are either of them worth violating a woman’s privacy?
The stubborn part of my brain argued, What if the woman is a criminal?
The logical brain sighed. How many criminals’—man or woman’s—houses have you broken into and installed cameras around?
Fuck you.
But I was installing audio recording devices. Four of them. In this room.
After doing just that, I checked my watch. Hugh had asked me to leave in two hours to be on the safe side. I still had half an hour. I looked through the drawers of her desk, which were cluttered with knickknacks once again. I slammed it closed, knowing I’d be tempted to organize it all properly.
I moved on to the walk-in closet and groaned in sheer agony.
What the fuck was the matter with this criminal woman?
The floor was a fucking mess, while the laundry basket was right fucking there, empty.
That was it. I grabbed all the fucking clothes and slammed them into the fucking basket. There. Now, was that so fucking hard?
The veins in my head popped as I browsed through the drawers, and my hand froze at the second drawer. Bras and underwear. The drawer was stuffed full of them. Literally stuffed. Every single one of them was lace and satin.
My hands itched, my cock throbbed, and before I knew it, I’d picked a random pair of underwear and placed them in my pocket.
Fucking payment for tidying her place. I deserved it.
I got out of her bedroom and installed ten audio recording devices in her living and dining rooms. I knew she’d find them. The fact of the matter was, how many would she find?
Once that was done, I opened the fridge and fucking balked. It was stacked with pre-prepped meals. Each had a little label on it with instructions for heating. It was orderly, pristine, and nothing like the woman who was an absolute raccoon.
Right then, my stomach rumbled.
Fuck it.
I grabbed the container of chicken parmesan and heated it per the instructions. Had she prepared these meals herself, she wouldn’t need these instructions. Dominic Park probably hired chefs to feed all these women.
I went to the dining table where my nemesis growled at me. But once I offered him some of the chicken parm, Shadow calmed down, and only occasionally tried to eat my face off.
That was what I called progress.
Once I was done with my meal—another fucking payment for tidying up the place a little—I washed the container, and once again, twenty other dirty utensils in the sink. Someone needed to spank my little vigilante’s ass.
This level of untidiness was unacceptable.
I checked my watch again. Almost time.
I quickly unleashed the dog, ran to her room to put the leash back—while being chased by Shadow—and bounded back out of the apartment, slamming the main door behind me, and into the emergency staircase.
As I limped my way down the stairs, I realized that for the first time, I had the time of my life.
I pulled out my phone and texted Hugh.
Me: Check her cameras just to be sure. Delete all of my footage. Or corrupt it.
Hugh: Will do.
Me: You couldn’t inform me about the dog?
Hugh:
Me: It fucking bit me!
Hugh: