Chapter 17
Nathan
I lose track of what I’m doing because my mind drifts back to last night… to her.
To the way she felt underneath me.
It was immediate.
Mouth on mouth. Hands everywhere. She backed up without looking until she hit the counter. The soft sound she made when I lifted her, when she wrapped herself around me like she’d already decided.
There was no space to think.
No hesitation.
Just heat.
Skin against skin. Breath against breath. The way she moved with me instead of away—the way she didn’t hold back.
I remember the look in her eyes when I pushed her hair out of her face.
Focused.
Hungry.
Mine.
And when I lost control, she didn’t flinch. She matched it. Matched me.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was electric.
A knock on my office door snaps the moment in half. Sharp. Real.
I blink, dragged back to polished wood and paperwork.
My assistant cracks the door open. “Nathan? There’s a man here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
I run a hand through my hair, pulse still elevated. “Who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
A second passes.
“Send him in.”
She steps aside. The door swings in.
A man stumbles inside like he’s been holding himself upright by sheer will, and it finally gives out. He’s in his thirties, maybe. Unshaven. Eyes bloodshot, I don’t place him right away. Suddenly, my blood runs cold.
The line. The numbers clipped to the shirts. The glass.
Him.
My whole body goes rigid, muscle memory locking down like I’m about to take a hit.
He stops in the middle of my office, chest heaving, looking around like he can’t believe he made it here.
“Mr. Reign,” he says, voice cracking.
I don’t answer. I don’t move.
My hands go still at my sides. My pulse spikes hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. “How did you—” My voice comes out lower than I expect. Rough. “How did you get in here?”
He flinches at the words, but it doesn’t stop him.
“They’re ruining my life,” he says, and the words spill out like he’s been holding them in too long. “They’re watching me. They’re calling my job. They’re talking to people in my building. They’re acting like I already did it.”
My hand curls into a fist.
A part of me—an ugly part—wants to cross the room and drive my fist into his face just to see what breaks first.
Not because I know he’s guilty.
Because he’s here.
Because his face is now inside my space.
Because if he had anything to do with this, I don’t want him breathing the same air as me.
He steps closer, hands half raised like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says, eyes shining. “I swear to you. I didn’t.”
I stare at him.
He looks… broken.
Not angry. Not smug. Not confident.
Just scared.
That doesn’t calm me. It complicates everything. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say, my blood running cold.
He keeps going, words tumbling. “I was there,” he blurts. “That day. I was working. I was on-site. I saw… I saw you.”
My stomach flips.
He swallows hard, face crumpling.
My body leans forward an inch before I catch myself. “Then why are you here?” I snap.
His throat bobs. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. “Because they’re saying I did it,” he says, and now his voice is wrecked. “They’re acting like I’m guilty because I’ve messed up before. Because I’ve got a record. Because I’m easy to pin it on.”
A record.
The word makes my hands clench harder.
Barnett’s voice comes back to me—violence, assault, abuse.
I don’t know what’s true. I don’t know which parts of him are fact and which are fear.
But I do know one thing: he came here. He walked into my office. And now he’s looking at me like I can save him. Like I’m the judge. Like I’m the one who decides whether he gets to breathe.
“You’re saying the police are wrong,” I accuse.
“I’m saying they don’t care if it’s me or not,” he answers, and his eyes flash with something that isn’t fear. It’s resentment. “They need someone. They need something to show they’re doing their job, and I’m right there. I’m the easiest one to point at.”
My teeth grind. The sick part is… I can hear it. I can hear how that happens. I can hear how a department under pressure starts squeezing whoever they can squeeze hardest.
And I hate myself for the flicker of doubt.
Because I don’t want doubt. I want certainty. I want a target. I want a name I can hate without guilt.
He takes another step forward, hands trembling now. “Please,” he says. “Please, Mr. Reign. I know you don’t know me. I know you think I’m a monster. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t.”
My chest rises hard. My body is buzzing. A thousand thoughts collide, and I can’t grab a single one long enough to make sense of it.
I want to hit him.
I want to drag him into a chair and interrogate him until his voice breaks.
I want to throw him out.
I want to lock the door.
I want—
A controlled knock interrupts everything.
My assistant cracks it open, careful. “Nathan? Your next appointment is here.”
The man freezes. Like he just remembered where he is. His face drains. He looks at me, then at her, then back at me. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just needed to tell you. I swear. I didn’t do it.”
Before I can respond, he backs toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
And then he’s gone.
The hallway swallows him.
My assistant looks at me, confused. Concerned.
“Cancel it,” I say decisively.
“Your appointment?”
“Yes.”
She nods and disappears.
I grab my phone. I don’t hesitate.
Barnett answers on the second ring. “Detective.”
“The man from the lineup was just in my office,” I say.
A beat.
“Who?”
“The guy you’re pushing. He came in here.”
There’s a shift in his tone instantly. “What do you mean he came in there?”
“He walked right into my office. How would he know where to find me?”
Silence.
Then—
“Stay where you are,” Barnett says. Firm. Controlled. “I’m sending a unit over now. Sit tight.”
The line goes dead.