Page 147 of Can You Take It?

I’ve never hated my job, but right now, I’d hand over my badge to Wilson just to keep myself wrapped around her. Thethought of leaving her, even for a few hours, feels like a knife to the jugular.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, getting up and scooping her into my arms. “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

She yelps in surprise, laughing. “Richard, put me down!”

I slap her ass, feeling the satisfying sting against my palm. “Nope. You’re mine, and I’m taking you to bed.”

Her eyes darken with desire, but she still protests weakly. “Come on. You have to go.”

“I’ll go when I’m damn well ready,” I growl, carrying her to the bedroom. Her body is so perfect against mine and I can’t get enough of her.

I lay her on the bed, taking a moment to admire the way she looks. “Stay here,” I command, leaning down to kiss her deeply. “I’ll be quick.”

“You better be,” she teases, pulling me back for another kiss. “Or I might just start without you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl, smirking against her lips. “I want to watch you come undone.”

I finally pull away, getting dressed as quickly as possible. Every second away from her feels like torture. Work is waiting, but for now, I’ll savor the memory of her warmth against my skin, the taste of her lips on mine, and the promise of her waiting for me when I return.

I find Wilson huddled over the case files of the Ghostface Striker. The guy might be tough, but he’s good at his job. I acknowledge my team lingering around my office with a nod, and they quickly disperse, leaving me alone with Wilson.

“Morning, Reynolds,” Wilson greets without looking up.

“Morning.”

I head toward my desk, trying to get a read on his mood, but it is not as easy. I haven’t even taken a seat when Wilson’s speaks.

“Can I ask why a Sheriff from Hollowbrook called me this morning to deport Victor Montclair?” He finally looks up. “Apparently, you detained him for questioning, and from what I gather, you were supposed to be working on the Striker case.”

“Yeah, about that. I spotted Victor Montclair’s car on my way. The situation looked fishy—he had someone wrapped up in a blanket in the backseat. I couldn’t just let that slide.”

Wilson’s brow furrows. “So, you made me call in a bomb squad, got me to notify the CMO about a possible threat, and had your team convinced that Izel was the Ghostface Striker… only for her to have an airtight alibi for every single incident? You messed up, Reynolds. And now, instead of focusing on the Striker, I’m dealing with the circus.”

I see Wilson’s irritation boiling over, and I can’t blame him. He’d personally questioned Izel after Colton fed him all those details linking her as the Ghostface Striker. Everyone in the room excluding me was bracing for the big break, until Izel calmly laid out her alibis, each one rock-solid. Without the crucial piece of evidence Victor supposedly has, Wilson had no choice but to buy her story. It stunned the team into silence, except for Luna and me. We weren’t surprised because we know the truth.

“Yeah, about that…” I start, trying to find the right words to diffuse the situation. “It was a mistake, okay? I’ll own up to it. I thought we had something, but it turns out Izel was clean. My team jumped the gun on this one.”

“What’s the update on the Ghostface Striker?”

“We’ve got a few leads, but nothing concrete. He can’t stay hidden forever.”

Wilson narrows his eyes at me. I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m hiding something. Which, of course, I am. The Striker case is closed, but I can’t let Wilson in on that just yet.

“You sound confident. Any new insights you want to share?”

I shrug, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Just a gut feeling. We’ve been closing in, and he’s bound to slip up sooner or later.”

Wilson was a profiler before he moved up the ranks, and I can see him assessing me. I’ve always thought I was better, but is that just arrogance? Can he see through my bullshit?

“We can’t afford any mistakes,” Wilson says for the hundredth time. “And next time be sure before embarrassing me.”

“Of course,” I assure him.

Wilson studies me for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. I need your head in the game. No distractions.”

“Understood.”

He hands me a file, and I glance down at the photos and reports. Each victim’s face stares back at me, a reminder of why I’m here.

---