Текст книги "Tethered Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“She seems real nice,” Brody says in a way that would make any woman squirm, glancing back over his shoulder when I lead him away.

“No, you’re not comin’ with me tomorrow.” I figure I should make that point before he tries to seduce her.

“Dammit.”

Idiot.

The front of Wistful, Dina’s store, is the number-one reason I’ve never entered it. It’s all fancy and mystical. Deep-purple curtains sweep over the corners, tied back with silver-white ropes. Black, velvet-looking stands hold rocks and crystals, books, candles, and even a couple of knifes. Honestly, I have no idea what any of them are.

Except the soaps. I recognize the soaps.

Regretfully, I get out of the car, pull my purse from the passenger’s seat, and take the tray with the coffee from the center console. I have no idea what she likes since she didn’t say, but apparently, Rosie has the memory of an elephant and remembered her usual order.

I get the feeling that Ms. White’s coffee machine isn’t so much broken as it is nonexistent.

The things I do for information.

I knock on the frosted-glass window set in the plum-colored door. Oh, it matches the drapes in the window. Someone’s been on Pinterest and taken notes on color coordination.

Perhaps I should try that in all of that spare time I have.

If it weren’t so lame, I’d be laughing at myself right now.

Thankfully, Dina approaches the door and cuts through my inner monologue. It’s ridiculously early, but she looks as though she could step onto a catwalk and not look out of place.

“Come in, come in!” She smiles at me, her lips coated with ruby-red gloss. She opens the door wide and steps to the side.

“Thanks.” I follow her into the dimly lit store and pause.

Dina catches my hesitation and reaches to the wall with a tiny smile curving her lips. There’s a tiny click, and then the room floods with light. The sudden brightness makes me blink harshly, and I center myself so I don’t step back. Fuck knows my heels haven’t been kind to me in the last twenty-four hours.

“Oh, you can set those down here on the register,” she says, looking at the coffee. “Or bring them out to the back. Sorry—with the fair here, I don’t have much time at the store.”

“Don’t worry. I’m so sorry to bother you. Yours is the left, by the way.” I set the holder try on the register counter and pass Dina her coffee.

“Put your purse under the counter, doll. I’ll lock the door.”

I set my beloved Coach purse—all right, so the thing is two weeks old. Don’t judge me—behind her register as she locks the door and guides me out to the back. I double back for my coffee then scoot back behind her. We move so quickly that I can’t really take in the store, but the back room I notice all right.

There are boxes everywhere. It appears to be a form of organized chaos. If I had the office like this, Grecia would come after me until I sorted it out.

“I know, I know.” Dina puts her coffee on a dusty bookshelf and looks at me sheepishly. She presses her hands together in front of her chest, grinning. “I’m not all too organized, but to me, it makes sense.”

“Yeah. I feel the same about my closet.” I look around in awe. There really are a lot of boxes here.

“So, what can I help you with?” She gives me one final glance before kneeling and grabbing a pocket knife. She slices the tape on the top of one box, opens it, then pushes it to the side. After she brings another forward, she repeats.

“I was hoping you could tell me something about Satanism.”

She stills, her knife embedded halfway down the tape. Slowly, she turns her face until her startlingly blue eyes meet mine. Then she pushes her silver hair out of her face. “I’m sorry?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. Instead of speaking, I take a deep breath and look down at my cup, fiddling with the protector thing Rosie puts on it to stop you from burning your hands. “I’m not interested for personal reasons,” I say quietly. Slowly. “Professional.”

“The murders? I didn’t know you were a cop.”

“I’m not. I have a client who…may have connections to it, and I’d like to know more before I dive in headfirst.”

I’m pretty sure she can see right through that lame lie, but if she can, she doesn’t give any indication.

Her shoulders drop and she goes back to opening her box. “Honestly, I don’t know much, doll. While I believe in Satan and respect him, I don’t worship him. I’ll stick to the goddesses.”

Whoever they may be. “I understand. It was a long shot. Thanks anyway.” I turn away.

“I can help though.”

“You can?” I look over my shoulder.

Dina nods, albeit reluctantly. She puts the knife down and moves a couple of boxes, revealing a chaise longue, which is surprisingly free of the dust that coats many other areas of this room. She waves toward it, and I take a seat.

“As a practitioner of magic, I’ve made it my job to know the basics of many religions. My mother owned this store before me and she was very…judgmental of others, shall we say. It blighted my childhood.”

That’ll explain why this store has always been here. At least, to me.

“Satanism isn’t what people think. Do they believe and worship the devil? Yes, doll. They do. I’m not gonna sugarcoat that shit. But it’s not all blood sacrifices or brutal things like you see in the movies. It’s a very…sexual…religion. They believe sex—more specifically, orgasm—has power. That’s the power they use to draw the devil, but it’s always consensual. Even if the receiver of the orgasm—the vessel, if you will—is a virgin. Some young girls in a sect are bred for that very reason.” She stands and removes books from the box then sets them on a shelf. “It sounds brutal, but it isn’t. They have the power to refuse at any time. After all, religion is very personal.”

“Of course. But they do have rituals?”

“They’re no different than the rituals I share with my coven or than a Christian attending church every Sunday.”

A coven? There’s a whole bunch of people like her?

Good God.

“Okay. Do they have like…a book or something? Like a bible? Or the book thingy you have?”

“A Book of Shadows?” She doesn’t look offended. Just mildly amused at my lack of knowledge. “Yes. I believe it’s The Satanic Bible… Something like that.”

“I guess you don’t have one, huh?”

“’Fraid not. Just because I understand it doesn’t mean my customers do. They see that and they’re likely to freak out.” She finishes unpacking the box, flips it over, cuts, and flattens it. “You can probably get one online. Anyway, like I said, that’s about all I know. They’re perfectly harmless, for the most part. Of course, you get some crazy bastards who take their belief too far and think Satan wants them to kill people, but they’re a very small few. No different than Catholics who believe Jesus manifests in their porridge each morning.”

Except you rarely hear of Catholics killing people in Jesus’ name. I keep that little tidbit to myself. I’m not sure she’ll share my sense of humor.

“Thanks, Dina. You’ve been real helpful.” I grip the edge of the seat to help myself stand, but I stop when I hear a loud banging on the front door.

Dina stops and looks at me. “You came alone?”

I nod in response. She gets up from her crouching position and, wiping her hands on her skirt, moves toward the front door.

“Oh, Detective Nash. Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes. Is Noelle here?”

“She’s out the back. Come on in.”

“I’m here,” I say, stepping into the main store and focusing on the imposing figure in the doorway.

Hate it when he does that.

“I need you,” he grinds out.

I look at the clock on the wall. “Well, I really have to go to the office, but if you insist, honey…”

He glances at the clock and then me, his lips twitching. As I focus on him, I notice the tightness in his shoulders and the businesslike way he’s carrying himself. Oh no. That’s never good.

My stomach twists, and I turn to Dina. “Thank you for your help.”

“Not at all.” She takes my hand and squeezes gently. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me. Here’s my card.” She pulls a small, silver-and-purple card from a holder on the counter.

I grab my purse from behind it. Then I drop the card in it as I say goodbye.

The door closes behind me, and no sooner has the key turned in the lock than it hits me. I forgot to ask about the runes. Fuck it. I’ll have to order that devil bible thing.

Drake clamps his hand on my shoulder and steers me toward his squad car. He’s dragging me so quickly that I can barely keep up with him, and I use my left hand to steady my coffee so I don’t drop it. It’s practically full, and I have the feeling I’m going to need it.

“In,” he demands.

“Are you arresting me?”

“Get in the damn car, Noelle,” he grumbles, running his fingers through his hair.

Ugh. Grumpy Drake. Pretty sure the man is all the seven dwarves rolled into one.

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, taking the passenger’s seat.

He slams the door shut then gets on in his side. He yanks his door shut and leans back in his seat. He’s dressed for work, and he looks exactly how he should, but there are waves of melancholy and apprehensive tension flowing off him.

I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Annabelle Porter. We located her car.”

Okay, so I was half right. “And?”

“And?” He frowns at me. “And there’s blood on the driver’s seat. It was half driven into a ditch on the edge of the woods.”

My heart thuds painfully. “And…Annabelle?”

“There’s a small search in the surrounding area. No one has opened the trunk yet. I guess they’re saving that little gem for me,” he responds dryly, turning the key.

The engine starts, and he pulls away.

“Why would a twenty-one-year-old student go missing then drive her car in a ditch, with blood on the seat?” I seriously need to finish this coffee if I just said that out loud.

Drake’s jaw clenches in response to my asinine question. Yeah, I didn’t think that through. I’m not even going to ask if the blood is hers, because I doubt they’ll know. Not that they’ll even have anything to compare it to. But shit.

I hope like hell that trunk is empty. I hope she’s just unconscious somewhere, or maybe she crashed her car and tried to walk somewhere for help. She can’t be dead. We can’t have a third body in as many days.

This isn’t New York, or Washington, or Miami, or Los Angeles. This is Holly fucking Woods. Tiny. Small town. Not even a thousand people for the population. Little privately owned businesses.

Serial murders don’t happen here. Freak murders? Sure. Every town has its nutjobs.

But a serial killer?

I don’t want to believe that. Even with the added people here for the fair more than doubling the population of town. I don’t want to believe that one single soul could harbor such hatred for so many people, let alone more than one person having that evil emotion.

“When did they find the car?” I ask quietly as Drake turns onto the road that leads to the woods. It’s on the opposite side of town to the fair, and for a brief second, I wonder if the disappearances are even connected at all.

“Around an hour ago.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “I went to your house, your office, and your parents’ until Brody called me and told me he remembered you made an appointment with Dina White.”

“Why didn’t you call—never mind,” I finish, remembering that my phone is in my purse, which I didn’t have on me.

“I didn’t know you were friends with Dina.”

I scrunch my face up.

He chuckles darkly. “All right. So you’re not friends with Dina. What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. She’s perfectly lovely.”

“Sounds like you stole that out of some classic romance novel.”

“You read classic romance novels? I pegged you for a comic book kinda guy.”

“Seriously, cupcake? When the fuck have you ever imagined me kicking back with a goddamn comic?”

I look up at the roof of the car. An image of Drake on his sofa, socked feet resting on the coffee table and a Batman comic book in his hands, comes to mind. Obviously, he’s shirtless in this image, because hello, priorities.

“Huh,” I say.

“Noelle.”

“You’d be a pretty hot nerd boy.”

“Boy? Now, I’m pissed.”

I shoot him a grin as he pulls in behind Trent’s car. Yeah. I know who each squad car belongs to. There are teeny-tiny markings that show the differences, but this time, I know because my eldest brother is leaning on the roof of the car, and only he and Alison are allowed to do that.

“Stop imagining me half naked and reading a comic book,” Drake growls, but his heart isn’t in it. No, in fact, he sounds a bit like an angry teddy bear. If teddy bears could talk.

I hold my hand up and sip my coffee. He leans over and swipes it from me. I gasp as he tips it up and takes a mouthful.

“Vanilla. Vile shit.” He hands it back to me and gets out of his car.

I copy him, grinning with a tight hold on my cup. “That’ll teach you to keep taking my coffee, asshole.”

He raises his eyebrows. If we weren’t at a crime scene, he’d so be handing me my ass right now. Or he’d be slapping it. His lips twitch as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, so I’m gonna say definitely slapping it.

Now, however, my brother is looking at me like he wants to beat me. And not in the way Drake wants to.

“You look like shit,” I tell Trent, drawing close to him.

He does. There are grayish-purple bags under his eyes, and the stubble that always lines his chin is not as trimmed as it usually is. It’s kind of roguish and untidy.

“Thanks for noticin’. Sil apparently stashes candy under his bed and ate too much. Alison was at work until two, so I was up with him all night while he was puking up Twizzlers and fuck knows what else. Now, I’m here.” He pushes off and sweeps his arm in the direction of the trees.

I follow his weak wave and note the rear end of a car visible through some thick tree trunks.

“Finish up here and go home.” Drake straightens up.

My brother opens his mouth to argue, but Drake reaches forward and squeezes his shoulder.

“That’s an order, Bond. You’re no use to anyone if you look like you’re about to drop your balls. Let’s open this trunk and then you can fuck off. I doubt you’ll struggle to make the hours back.”

With that, Drake releases him, claps him on the back, and heads toward where a couple of young officers are standing guard in front of the car. He ducks under the tape and, proceeding toward them, discusses something. Then he nods and takes the gloves one of them hands him.

Good God, Detective Nash is hot as fuck when he’s bossy.

Unless it’s me he’s bossing around. Then I just want to punch him in the junk.

“He’s a good guy,” Trent says quietly. “And I’m not just saying it because he’s my best friend. He cares about you.”

My shoulders lift to my ears with my deep breath, and they drop on my exhale. “Not exactly the place for this, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “It’s now or family dinner.”

“Hey!” I step up to him and wrap one arm around his neck in a quick hug. “That was sweet. Thanks.”

He snorts, following me toward the tape. He lifts it so I can duck under it, and I am so glad it hasn’t rained for several days. Once again, my footwear is inappropriate for the task at hand.

I recognize the young guy as Officer Peters, and he glances at my heels.

“Uh, ma’am? You aren’t dressed for the scene.”

Drake glances over his shoulder, and I make a quick choice. I bend down, remove my shoes, then hand them to Officer Peters.

“Will you hold these for a second? Thanks, darlin’.”

Before he can respond, I tiptoe down the small ridge to where the driver’s side door is open. Drake gives me a look but doesn’t say anything.

“Hers?” he asks Detective Johnson.

“Presumably. Unlike the last two victims, we have no video footage of her at any point. We possibly have the car going down Main Street, but that’s it. The camera doesn’t get the whole road. We’ve bagged most of the evidence found, including her purse, identification, and her cell phone. Her keys were on the floor and bagged. There was also a cup of takeout coffee and a greasy napkin. They’re both going to the lab for testing.”

Drake’s head bobs up and down in acknowledgement. “And the trunk? Still shut?”

Detective Johnson pauses. “Yes, sir. We were, er… We were waiting for you. Just in case.”

Just in case her dead body is in there.

Drake rolls his eyes. “Are you a homicide detective or a rookie in the academy, Johnson? I’m sure you can break into a trunk in a search for evidence.”

“Well. Ah, yes, sir, but you see…”

Drake’s eyebrows shoot up. “You were instructed to by Sheriff Bates.”

“Yes,” Johnson rambles. “That’s it, sir.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Johnson.”

The man looks appropriately ashamed. “I know, sir.”

I swallow my giggle. Not only is this far too perilous of a situation to be giggling, but it’s just inappropriate. The guy is clearly scared out of his wits. Which, in my opinion, he doesn’t have many of anyway.

“Let’s get this open. Is it unlocked?”

“Ah. That I checked.” Johnson wrings his hands. “Locked.”

A chill snakes down my spine.

Drake steps past me then holds his hand out for me. I take it, and he steadies me on the uneven ground. I smile at him gratefully, if hesitantly, as I take the few steps.

Woodland is not made to be stepped on with nothing but lace-top thigh-highs covering your legs and feet. If I’d had any idea I’d be coming to a crime scene, I’d have put my Chucks in this purse and not worn my favorite stockings.

That’s what I get for trying to pay Drake back.

Trent hands Drake a crowbar. Not the most professional way I’ve seen a cop get into a locked trunk, but whatever floats their boat. Personally, I would have called a locksmith, but what I do know? My success rate in cases in law enforcement while holding a badge are rather dismal. At least, that’s how it seems to me… But it always does.

I shake that shadowy thought off. No—the present isn’t the time to dwell on the past. Ironically, I think I’ll do that in the future.

Look, I never pretended to make sense, okay?

Drake wedges the end of the crowbar between the seal of the trunk and the car, and I wince.

“All right, cupcake?” he asks me.

That’s the first time he’s said that and actually meant the “all right” part.

“Are you sure you should be using a crowbar?” Apparently, I am questioning it. Go figure.

“We’ll cover the cost of the damage,” he answers right before he pushes the crowbar down with a wink at me and the trunk pops open.

Metal clangs through the air as it slams into the bar, and Drake pauses, facing Johnson.

“Y’all pulled prints already?”

“Sir.” He nods.

“Good.” Drake grabs the handle and slowly lifts the trunk. He steals a glance at me, so I look down at my stockinged feet, now marked brown from their dance with the dirt. Dirt that is still beneath my toes.

The deep sound of four rushing, relieved exhales fill my immediate air, and I snap my eyes up.

The trunk is empty.

Where is Annabelle Porter?

Officer Peters hands me back my heels with a sheepish smile. I take them, declining to put them on, instead offering him a light smile as a thank-you.

“There’s nothing here,” Trent surmises after looking in the trunk. “Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Just a jacket, a pair of boots, and an empty shopping bag.”

Drake sighs. “Bag it for evidence anyway. Who knows what we could find and where?”

“Sir?” a tentative voice asks from our right.

We all turn although it’s clear Drake was addressed.

“What is it, Winters?” Drake asks, rubbing his hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s stressed.

“We just found a shoe a couple minutes from here,” he responds. “It’s the same size as Annabelle Porter’s roommate claims she wears.”

Drake’s shoulders draw back, pulling him to his full height. He’s an imposing man at the best of times, but when his body is rigid with tension and he’s in his cop mode, he can be downright terrifying.

It’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of him.

“Show me.” Drake takes off after Winters, each step steady despite the uneven ground.

I share a look with Trent. If there’s exploring to do, my dirty, stockinged feet and I are gonna go along for the ride. They’re probably already laddered under my foot, so what the hell. Let’s do this, tootsies.

Guessing he can’t argue with me, Trent takes my hand and helps me down the semi-steep decline. Oddly enough I have more grip barefooted than I would in any kind of shoes, but some of the natural debris on the ground is on the sharper side. I wince more than once as broken bits of twig and stone and bark dig into the soles of my feet. I have to stop twice along the trip to remove bits that get stuck to the bottom of my stockings.

“Aw, fuck.”

The two words are but a whisper from Drake, but they scream at me as if they’re wired to echo throughout the universe, and I know exactly what they mean. Two tiny words, six meager letters, but they are the heaviest I’ve heard in a long time.

Annabelle Porter is here.

I take a deep, steadying breath and steel myself for the sight that I know will be ahead. My brother’s grip on my hand tightens, but I ease my now-sweaty palm from his hold and move closer to Drake.

“Noelle,” he whispers, a warning in his voice.

No. If she’s here, I want to see her. I have a right to see her. I never knew her, sure. She’s nothing but a name and a victim to me, but I can’t, in any kind of conscience, investigate who did this unless I know what kind of thing we’re up against.

That strong, resolute thought sends a sizzle of strength through me, and I take a place at Drake’s side.

My lungs burn with my gasp.

Ten feet away, curled into a ball, with her back to us and her blond hair covered in dirt, a naked female is lying on the ground. Engraved into her back are the very same symbols we saw just two days ago on Toni and Melissa, and the presence of these four small shapes leaves no doubt in my mind that this is Annabelle.

Drake shoves his hand back, his fingers wide, in a motion for me to stop. He doesn’t need to tell me twice. My stomach is rolling with sadness and misplaced guilt, both emotions interlaced with sympathy for this poor girl. Drake crouches on the ground next to her and touches two fingers to her wrist.

His shoulders heave as he gently sets her wrist back from where he just took it. Then he clasps his hands in front of him and drops his head. He had known the futility of his action before he did it, but I know him. He wanted to make sure we weren’t just assuming. He wanted to make sure she hadn’t just been left here.

Trent wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. I swallow hard, bringing my hand up to cover my mouth. I wish I could go to Drake. I wish so fucking much that I could go up to him and just hug him until he forgets the feeling of touching his fingers to a woman’s lifeless wrist.

But I can’t. So I stand here, against my brother’s side, watching as Drake radios in the body.

I’d be a fool to think Annabelle wasn’t connected to Toni and Melissa.

It strikes fear through my body like nothing else. Sure, we’ve dealt with multiple murders. Both times, we solved it before more than two people were killed, and that was different. Those crimes were personal—there were real and emotional motives behind them.

Now, we have a third body. We have a third innocent, undeserving-of-a-brutal-crime, lifeless victim.

I have no idea how to process this information.

I extract myself from Trent’s grasp and turn away. My gentle steps across the dirt turn to a run on my tiptoes as my soul demands that I get as far away from this situation as possible.

Of course, my as-far-away-as-possible is Drake’s car. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.

Another body. Number three. The one that means we have something far more vicious and brutal than we ever imagined.

It means we have a serial killer on our hands.

I stumble through the dirt and trip over a loose twig just yards from Drake’s squad car. Pain slices through my instep. “Fuck!” I yell, hopping toward Drake’s car. I lean against the side of the hood, drop my shoes to the grass, and, bracing my hand on the windshield, rest my ankle on my knee so I can check the bottom of my foot.

There’s a cut running diagonally across my skin—not particularly deep, but deep enough that the inch-long slice is bleeding steadily. Immediately, I move it so no blood gets on my skirt.

Hey. Have you ever tried to get blood out of clothing? It’s damn hard, and I love this skirt.

“Noelle?”

Drake and Trent come bursting through the trees, shoulder to shoulder. Worry is etched across both of their faces, although their expressions are wildly different. Trent’s eyebrows are raised, his brown eyes hard and his lips turned down. Drake’s lips are parted, his eyebrows drawn down into an intense frown, and his cheeks are almost red.

But it’s his eyes. It’s always his eyes. That icy blue is hot with every kind of fear I’ve ever seen and several types I haven’t.

“I’m okay,” I reassure them, grasping my lower calf. “I just cut my foot on something sharp as I came back.”

“On what?” Trent looks at the ground.

“I don’t know. A broken twig? I didn’t exactly fucking stop like, ‘Oh, bitch, you just cut me!’” I yell, wincing as another burst of pain slices through my foot. “Ouch, you slimy little bastarding motherfucker!”

“You don’t do pain well, do you?” Drake murmurs, taking my foot and looking at it. “Can you take these off?” He touches the stitched toe of my stockings. “They won’t be helping.”

“Uh…” I glance around at the officers watching then meet Drake’s eyes and tap my upper thigh.

“Turn around,” he snaps at everyone else.

Once they have, I reach beneath my skirt and roll off the stocking.

“Bag.” He holds it out until a plastic bag is produced. Then he drops it in.

He needs it to keep me separate from the scene.

I take a deep breath and wince again as my toe twitches. Good fucking God. This shit hurts.

“Where’d you cut it?” Drake releases my ankle and leans back on his heels. He unbuttons his shirt, revealing his tan, toned torso.

“What are you doing?”

He bunches the pure-white material up and presses it against my foot. “Stopping your bleeding,” he replies simply. He lifts his radio and tells the person on the other end about my injury. When he drops it, his gaze is a mixture of cop-eyes and caring-eyes. “Where’d you cut your foot?”

“Two yards, maybe?” I shrug, taking over holding his shirt against my foot, which is still bleeding. “I hopped here, so it can’t be more. I have shit balance.”

“I wanna argue, given those shoes.” He cuts his eyes to said shoes. “But okay. Can you point?”

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth and scan the area. Annabelle’s body is—gulp—over there, so… “Between that tree, the big one, and here.” I glance down at the red stain now soaking through his shirt and slap my cheek to keep consciousness. “So between here and there.”

“Are you all right?” Trent asks, his worried gaze penetrating my confident barrier.

“Fine. Just…bleeding,” I reply, steadfastly refusing to stare at my foot.

Yeah. I hate blood. It’s almost up there with spiders.

“Look.” Drake’s word is short and sharp, and although he’s handed over pressure of his shirt to me, he isn’t willing to move, apparently.

Not that I mind. The man is fine. With those broad shoulders and curvy biceps and pecs that just wanna be snuggled.

“Yes,” Trent replies sharply. Clearly, he wants to be here but is refusing to argue with his boss.

It’s cute that Drake won’t leave me.

“I’m fine,” I whisper just as he grasps my waist and sits me on his hood properly.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says back softly. He covers my hand with his, and I cry out at the pain that darts up my leg. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling me into him. “You’re all right, cupcake. Ambulances are on their way.”

“Fuck that.” I fight back, feeling the effects of the blood loss. Apparently, the cut was deeper than I thought. “No hospital.”

“No hospital,” he promises. His touch is the warm, soothing sensation my crawling skin needs.

“Fuck it,” Trent curses.

“What?” I ask, pushing away from Drake and attempting to look over his shoulder.

Drake shifts, still holding on to me, and looks at Trent. “What is it?”

Trent draws in a deep breath as he comes level with us. Well, as level as he can with the corner of a car between us.

I gotta say that bleeding out from my foot isn’t how I imagined Detective Drake Nash leaning over me on the hood of his squad car. I was thinking more heels, stockings, and a thong.

Fuck you, murderer. Fuck you.

Slowly, blurrily, my brother lifts a clear, plastic bag with a pocket knife in it. Red stains the sharp tip, both fresh and old, and nausea makes my stomach roll and flip and, good fucking God, it pirouettes into the national ballet group or whatever it is.

My blood. Mixing with someone else’s.

I look to the side and press my mouth into my hand as bile forces its way up my throat, burning every second it travels.

I barely hear Drake tell Trent to hide it before his strong arm catches me as I pass out.

My neck hurts.

I blink harshly and stretch my whole body out. It feels as though water spread through my veins and iced in the time I was out. Every muscle feels stiff, but as my eyes open, I instantly recognize my surroundings.

I’m at Drake’s.

More specifically, I’m in Drake’s bed.

I rub my eyes and roll to the side. A sharp sting radiates across my foot, and this morning comes rushing back to me. Holy shit—I cut my goddamn foot. I sit up too quickly and my head spins, so I press my fingertips against my forehead until the feeling passes.

Soft fabric brushes my stomach, and I move the sheet covering me to the side. I’m no longer wearing what I was earlier—now, I’m wearing one of Drake’s precious white button-down shirts.

Holy shit.

He covered my foot with one and then changed me into one while I was unconscious.

His precious, beloved, prized white shirts.

Note to self: Buy him two new shirts for Christmas. He’s never getting this fucker back. It’s the softest thing to ever touch my skin, and I once owned a cashmere sweater.

I pull the soft collar up to cover my mouth. It smells exactly like him: like coffee and chocolate and gunpowder. I wonder if he rubbed himself all over this like a kitten before he put me in it.