Chapter 34
Laurette Devereux
Justice doesn’t play favorites, but today she looked in my direction.
The crowd spilling from the courthouse wears the look of people who’ve witnessed a pivot, even if they can’t name it. The case tipped today, and the balance leaned my way.
I keep walking, chin level, pace even. No victory strut. No outward thrill.
But my smile tells on me.
There’s a buoyancy under my ribs I didn’t have this morning, and it pushes my steps a fraction lighter. A weight has been lifted. The courthouse seems different, less like a battlefield and more like a place where I have the upper hand.
A group of defense attorneys standing near the pillars falls silent as I approach.
Their conversation stutters to a stop, curiosity sharpening their gazes.
I catch the flicker, something edged with the faintest hint of wariness.
Not because of me alone, but because of what unraveled in the courtroom today—Jon David’s polished veneer cracking in real time.
The images replay in my mind: him returning from recess with a stiff jaw and uneven breath, tugging at his cuffs. His voice, usually flawless, stumbled in small, almost imperceptible falters—ones only someone who’s studied him would notice.
I noticed.
His shoulders stayed tight, his eyes skimming past the jury rather than meeting them. Each question came clipped, as though trying to dodge the tremor weaving beneath his words.
Not a collapse. No, something quieter and more telling.
The residue of Jon David’s unraveling still tingles along my skin. I want to savor this moment—the quiet hum of momentum leaning my way, the unmistakable sense that something immovable has shifted.
I’m winning. And the world around me knows it.
My keys hit the counter the moment I step inside, sharp against the house’s quiet. My heels follow, slipping off to ease the tension in my calves. One tug at the clip in my hair, and it tumbles around my shoulders, carrying a release that loosens something deep inside me.
In minutes, my living room becomes a command center—files spread across the coffee table, laptop casting a low glow, pages sliding under my fingers. It’s a setup I know well, the kind that lets me sink in after a long day.
But my focus keeps slipping. Any time I sink into the testimony, Bastien’s voice pushes in and breaks my concentration.
You’re welcome, Babygirl.
Just a few words, and my whole world tilted.
My pulse slips into a different rhythm, something low and heated, pulling me back to the hallway outside the courtroom. The certainty in his tone. The way he walked past me as though we were strangers.
Knowing he’d been watching me the whole time sends a slow shiver down my spine.
I try to steady my thoughts, force myself back into the case, but the pages blur at the edges. My shoulders tense, my breath hitching more than it should.
Because he was there.
Because he saw me.
Because he wanted me to know it.
And the truth is I can’t stop thinking about him.
The burner phone waits where I left it, face down as though that might lessen its pull. It doesn’t. Not tonight.
My fingers slip around it before I bother convincing myself otherwise, and the moment the screen brightens, his thread is right there, open, waiting, impossible to resist.
My fingers move before I think.
You were in the courtroom today.
His reply hits almost instantly.
Today and yesterday. You were incredible. Watching you work made my dick hard.
A slow breath slips from me, heat pooling. My legs press together, an instinctive attempt to calm the sudden rush sweeping through me. The warmth has nothing to do with today’s win.
This…
This is something else.
My thumbs hover over the screen, the warmth from his last message tightening low in my body. The filter between impulse and action thins until there’s nothing left to hold it back.
I wanted to run after you when you passed me today.
The bubbles appear immediately.
But that would end the mystery far too soon, and we’re only at the beginning.
What turns you on more? The mask or what happens when it finally comes off?
The truth folds out of me before I can cage it.
A part of me loves the mystery. Another part is ready to see who you are.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again.
You’ll see my face when you’ve earned it.
A slow ache builds beneath my ribs, something between frustration and desire and an unsettling awareness that he means every word. My mind turns over the idea—earning a man who gives nothing away, a man who hides everything except the hunger he aims at me.
I should resent it.
I don’t.
It sinks deeper than it should, threading through me in a way that feels dangerous. And I want more.
The conversation hangs open on the screen, his last message pulsing with challenge. My thumb hovers, breath shallow, pulse tapping at my throat. I shouldn’t send what I’m thinking.
But I send it anyway.
Come to me tonight.
Not a question. Not a plea.
His response flashes back fast.
10:30. Be ready.
A tremor rolls through me. Control and caution slip. Everything sane in me slips. I type before I can stop myself.
Do you want me blindfolded?
A pause. Barely a second. Then—
No. Be naked. Lights off. No blindfold or mask tonight. Only the darkness will hide my face.
The words hit with the force of a hand closing around my throat, thrilling in a way that makes my thighs press together. My fingers tighten around the phone, the edge of danger sharp enough to taste.
It feels like stepping into darkness with no promise of where the floor ends or the fall begins. And I want the drop. All of it.
Yes, My Wolf.
That’s my good girl.
Case files reclaim my attention for a while, spread in strict lines across the table. I force myself into the rhythm, highlighting testimony, flagging exhibits, tightening notes for the morning. My focus is sharp, almost aggressive, but it frays at the edges every time my mind drifts to him.
His messages thread themselves through the margins of my work, slipping between sentences and cross-references until my pulse competes with the ticking of the clock.
When the hour gets too close to ignore, I push back from the table and head for the shower.
Steam fills the bathroom in slow waves, fogging the mirror until the world outside the glass disappears. Hot water runs over my shoulders and down my spine, loosening muscles that have been coiled all day. I shave and moisturize every inch of skin, working lotion into my legs until my hands glide.
Perfume follows: one spritz at the base of my throat, another at my hipbones, a final one at the tops of my inner thighs. Subtle and intimate—the kind meant for closed spaces and a man who will be close enough to breathe it in.
My hair takes time. Long strokes through the length, the brush guiding it into a tight ponytail at the crown of my head. Easy for him to grab, easy for him to pull.
I towel off, clearing a streak on the fogged mirror. My reflection looks back, flushed and more than ready.
“Get over here, My Wolf, and fuck me senseless,” I whisper to the glass.
In the bedroom, my newest playlist hums to life. “Novacane” by Shearwater slips through the speakers, low and dark.
Cool sheets wait as the clock edges toward go-time. Every breath is a countdown.
The bedroom sinks into darkness. I lie back on the cool sheets, naked, the playlist humming low at my side. “Strange Effect,” by Unloved and Raven Violet, seeps through the speaker—moody and slow, a seduction with teeth.
My eyes stay fixed on the doorway even though there’s nothing to see. Every quiet pop and groan of the old house amps my pulse. Every whisper of sound could be his footsteps.
My mind drifts to the last time we were together. The memory is sharp enough to make me arch my back off the mattress.
I swallow, throat tight, and whisper into the dark, “Come ruin me.”
There’s nothing left to do but wait. For the footsteps. The click of the lock. The moment the darkness stops being empty.
And so I wait.
The door opens with a soft creak that slides straight through the darkness, and my pulse jumps. Then the door clicks shut behind him.
Heat sparks beneath my skin, thrumming through every inch of me. I tip my head toward the sound, voice low and wicked, meant to hook him the second he steps inside. “My pussy’s so wet for you it’s embarrassing. Get over here and fuck me.”
Silence answers me.
Odd. He usually has something filthy to say—something dark and depraved to match the invitation.
A long pause stretches out.
He must be undressing, taking his time, drawing it out to make me ache for him.
That would be just like him.
Still, the quiet lingers, long enough for a sliver of unease to slide down my spine. Just a ripple, barely there, but impossible to ignore.
The mattress dips, and a rush of heat skates up my spine.
Then hands slide around my throat. Big and rough. Not gentle and playful.
A startled breath catches in my chest, the sound small in the dark.
Oh. We’re doing this. Breath play.
His fingers tighten. A little more. Then too much.
Air snags, trapped without movement. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out—not even his name. “Bas—” becomes a rasp swallowed by the pressure at my neck.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
This is too much.
My hands fly up, clawing at his wrists. Nails dig and scrape, trying to pry even a sliver of space to breathe. His grip only locks down harder.
My legs kick at the sheets, and my vision pricks with bright spots, blooming at the edges. A pulse pounds in my ears.
The room folds in on itself. Sounds narrow. Everything tunnels into the brutal, undeniable truth pressing against my windpipe.
This is too far. I don’t like this.
My lungs burn, and my fingers slip. The world tilts, and everything goes thin.
Then the weight on me is ripped away so quickly the mattress bucks beneath my body. Air rushes into my throat in a jagged scrape that burns all the way down.
A crash follows. Something slams hard into the dresser. Wood splinters or glass shatters. The room explodes with sound.
Another crash. A grunt. Flesh hitting flesh. The thud of bodies colliding with walls.
I roll onto my side, sucking in air that barely cooperates, lungs stuttering. My vision swims, bending the darkness into smeared shapes and shadows.
The fight is everywhere. Heavy breaths. The sharp smack of a fist landing. The strained scrape of feet sliding across the floor.
My hand reaches blindly toward the nightstand, fingers knocking against the lamp’s base.
Everything blurs. Tilts. But I find the switch.
Light.
Light.
Please. Light.
My strength wavers, but I force my fingers to curl around the switch and twist as the sounds of the fight crash around me. The lamp flares to life in a shaky burst of light.
Two men explode into clarity. Neither masked. Neither familiar in the darkness still clinging to the edges of my vision. They’re locked together on the floor in a violent tangle, limbs grappling, muscles straining, a brutal blur of motion I can’t separate.
One is on top, driving the other down with terrifying force. His face is hidden, turned and shadowed, nothing but a smear of movement.
The man beneath him thrashes, fingers clawing at the hand crushing his throat. A strangled sound tears from his mouth.
The man on top tightens his grip. Then there’s a sharp, decisive twist. His body jerks once, a hard involuntary snap, and the life drains out of the man on the floor.
Completely still.
Horrifying.
The man above stays crouched over the body, shoulders heaving, head bowed, hand still locked around the dead man’s throat as if he’s not ready to let go.
I can’t tell which man tried to kill me. Or which one tried to save me.
All I know is one of them isn’t breathing.
And the other is on his feet now, only steps from my bed.
Staring straight at me.