8. Holden
EIGHT
HOLDEN
“Well, good morning, wildcat,” I mutter as Sage Adams, aka the woman of my darkest desires, steps out of her apartment building.
I’m across the street, leaned up against a parking meter with a coffee I’ve been nursing for the last two hours. Knox had eyes on her last night and confirmed she made it home safe. I took over after we finished at the beach, because apparently sleep is for the fucking weak.
The roommate calls out to her from their window, something about a bag and a uniform. Sage goes stiff for a second, then she turns and hits the pavement at a near-sprint. Her dark hair’s scraped back, and she’s wearing long sleeves in weather that doesn’t call for it.
Smart girl.
Full face of makeup, too. More than I’d expect this early on a Saturday. Covering what the long sleeves can’t, I suppose. But it’s the rest of her face that snags me—eyes wide, jaw locked.
Shit.
I dump my now cold coffee and push off the meter to follow, thinking about what she looked like eight hours ago: moonlight, blood, knife in her fist, sounds that weren’t quite human.
Not because watching her go full avenging angel on Brock was hot—though, sure, let’s not kid ourselves—but because she did it like someone who, under the right circumstances, could be as dangerous as any of us.
Would it be wrong to tell her how much I enjoy watching her draw blood?
She plows down the block, a blur of black denim and panicked energy.
She doesn’t notice me tailing her. She’s fast for someone running on little sleep and a night’s worth of psychological demolition, but I’ve got longer legs and a decade of chasing people who don’t want to be caught.
I close the gap in six strides and catch her from behind.
My arms go around her waist and I lift her clean off the sidewalk. She starts fighting before she even knows who’s got her.
Fuck, she fights good.
“There you are, baby!”
I spin her a full rotation, like she’s coming off a carousel, like I’m a boyfriend who’s been waiting outside her building with flowers and a big dumb grin. To anyone watching—the old guy walking his terrier, the woman jogging with a stroller—we’re a fucking adorable couple.
She’s rigid as a two-by-four in my arms, her ribs expanding like she’s about to scream.
“Go with it, wildcat,” I murmur into her hair, my lips barely moving. She smells like drugstore shampoo and fear, and I’m immediately hard. Again. This is becoming problematic. “There are people around.”
I set her down. She stumbles, catching herself on my chest, fingers splayed, heat bleeding through my shirt—and I use the momentum to turn us toward the brick wall, blocking the sidewalk route without making it look like a fight. One hand braces beside her head and I lean in.
“You.” She glares up at me, the word spitting off her tongue.
This close, I can count her eyelashes. See the vein jumping at her throat. Watch her pupils blow wide as she processes who I am and what I represent.
“Me.” I keep my voice low, easy. We’re just two people having an intimate conversation on a Saturday morning. Nothing to see.
“What are you doing here?”
“Stopping you from doing something stupid, like going back to that beach.”
Her jaw works. “I left my purse behind.”
“And you think we’d leave it there?”
“No—I don’t know. But I need it.”
“Need’s a strong word, wildcat.”
“My phone’s in it.” Her voice drops, careful, like she’s testing ice. “And someone answered Amy last night. Texted her back. As me.” She searches my face. “That was one of you.”
“That was Milo.” I keep my voice low. “Your roommate wanted to know you got home safe. So he sent her a thumbs up and she stood down. You’re welcome.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I give her the rest.
“The bag’s safe. It’ll be back where it belongs by the time you’re home.” I let that settle, then let myself ask the thing I’ve been turning over in my mind since Knox gave me the handover report. “Tell me something. Your keys were in that bag. How’d you get inside last night?”
Her chin comes up. “Same thing anyone would do. I buzzed apartments until someone let me into the building.”
“That doesn’t explain how you had a key to your front door.”
She shrugs. “We keep a spare in the planter by our door.”
“Classic.” I lean back and let out a rough laugh. “You do realize that’s how most home invasions happen, yeah? Smart girl like you—I’d expect at least a fake rock for the spare. Or a secondary deadbolt.”
“There’s not a lot worth stealing in our apartment.”
I search her face for the crack where I can pour myself in. “You think you’re not worth something?”
Her eyes flick up, hold mine for a beat before she tries to slide sideways to get away. I block her, hand still braced above her head. Her face giving, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I could get drunk off the terror-teetering-on-challenge in it.
“You know,” I say, letting the topic drop. “I didn’t peg you as a cute pink, beaded clutch person.”
“It’s not mine,” she grinds out. “It’s Amy’s.”
“Ahh. The roommate. Makes sense. You strike me as more of a knuckle-duster purse type. Or one covered in studs.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Those are designer and I don’t have that kind of money.”
I smile. She’s got bite, this one. Even cornered and terrified, she’s snapping back.
It makes me want to see what else she’d do with the right kind of pressure.
I’d love to find out—my hand around her neck, her legs pinned open, my palm over her mouth while she learns the difference between fear and wanting.
She glares up at me and I let myself enjoy the staring contest. She doesn’t win. Her gaze flickers, then comes back, and I smile—small, knowing, predatory—just to watch her reaction.
“You gonna give me my things or stare at me all day?” she snaps.
Fuck, I’m turned on by the flash of fire in her eyes.
“Maybe I like looking at you,” I say. “Your vibe is ‘two seconds from biting me.’ It’s working for you.”
Her fists clench tighter, and for a half second, I swear she’s going to punch me.
Oh baby, bring it on.
To my disappointment, she doesn’t. “You think this is funny?”
I lean in again, hand still braced on the brick behind her.
“I think you’re angry, and I think you’re scared, and I think both of those things make you dangerous.
But I didn’t come here to flirt, and I didn’t come here to fight.
” My voice drops, meant just for her. “I came here to make sure you’re okay. ”
She licks her bottom lip. It’s involuntary, a nervous tic, but it makes my cock throb. I ease back enough so she’s not pressed between me and the bricks, and watch her sort through the possibilities—does she run, does she swing, does she scream?
She stays put, breathing hard, the shape of her nipples visible under the thin cotton of her shirt.
I see this attraction isn’t one-sided.
“You were watching me?”
I don’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
She blinks. I watch the realization register, slow at first and then all at once. “You think I’m a threat.”
“No.” I lean in just enough so she can feel my words at her ear. “I know you’re a threat. That’s why I wasted my morning staked out across from your place instead of catching up on casework.”
She presses herself tighter into mortar. Her face is defiance, but her pulse is a strobe against her throat. “Casework? You’re a cop?”
“Bingo. And you have two options, Sage,” I tell her, rolling her name in my mouth. “Option one, you let me walk you to Gull’s—”
“How do you know where I work?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Same way I know everything about you, Sage Adams, twenty-three, recently relocated from—” I pause, let the silence do the work. “Somewhere up north. You don’t need me to tell you why you moved.”
Her face goes through about six expressions in two seconds, none of them friendly. I want to photograph each one and put them in the spank bank.
“You went through my things.”
“And did a background check and everything. I needed to know what we’re dealing with.”
“What you’re dealing with?” Her voice climbs and I lean in closer, which brings it right back down to a hiss. “I’m not a situation to be dealt with. I’m a person who was—who had a—who—” She stops. Blinks. Presses her lips together so hard they go white. “Just tell me what you want.”
“As I was saying, I’m going to escort you to work, and when you’re done with your shift you come with me and we have a nice, civilized conversation.”
She snorts. “You going to take me to an abandoned house and waterboard me? Or is this like, the entry-level abduction package? Do I get to live afterward or is that reserved for masked assholes?”
“I’d never touch you unless you wanted it.” I reach out, my fingers hovering a hair’s breadth above her pulse point. “And I hope to god you’ll want me too. Soon.”
She hesitates, her skin flushing.
“As tempting as that isn’t, I’ll pass. What’s option two?”
I withdraw my hand. “Option two is you run, in which case this situation gets interesting.” I smile, wanting her to know I wouldn’t mind either way.
She narrows her eyes. “Because you’ll chase me?”
“Because then I find out what you actually do when a professional’s hunting you. Right now I’m just guessing.” I flick the collar of her shirt with two fingers just to see if she’ll flinch. She doesn’t. She glares at me, a little less scared, a little more pissed, which is my favorite trajectory.
Good girl. Fight me.
“Are you threatening me?”
I laugh. “If I wanted to threaten you, wildcat, you’d know.
What I am is . . . concerned. Less about you ratting, and more about you blowing up your own life.
Which will blow up my life. And my friends from last night.
” I look her over—every detail. She sees me do it and purses her mouth like she’s holding back a snarl.
“So what happens after this talk? Do you leave me be? Keep stalking me forever?”
“Depends,” I say, leaning in for the whisper, “I only get obsessive about the very best people.”