Page 36 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

It takes a few moments for my brain to figure out where I’m standing. It must be his workshop. The air is thick, tinged withthe unmistakable tang of molten metal and the acrid bite of smoke.

The walls are lined with an assortment of tools like hammers, tongs, and pliers all hanging from hooks above shelves with metal scraps.

If there’s evidence linking him to the Puppeteer, I bet it’d be in here. Here or that basement.

He’d be too smart to leave evidence out in the open, on the workbench displaying his current projects—metal sculptures, knives, some jewelry.

“Vance said you wanted to talk?” I start.

He nods, walking over to his sink and washing his hands. He tosses the damp towel over his shoulder, settling on the edge of the workbench. He folds his arms over his chest, the muscle under his tanned skin ripples with each minor motion.

“I’m a little confused,” he starts.

“About what?”

He rubs a hand over his stubble, his bicep flexing.

“You show up here saying we’re the only group of guys that you think can protect you from your ex-boyfriend.”

I nod slowly. This again. Are they really that worked up about my heading home? Didn’t they want me to find that damn doll leg stuffed in my mailbox.

“But then you took off?”

“You left me standing there, naked in your apartment. What was I supposed to do?”

“Sure as hell not run off in the night, where your ex-boyfriend might find you”

My pulse quickens. Shit. I need to tread carefully. He stares me down, his features softening. Goddamn him and his intense eyes.

For a beat, I consider spilling my guts about the shitstorm I’d landed myself in. But I don’t think he’ll take too kindly to the fact that work with and for the police.

“I wasn’t thinking, not after-”

“What? Your little dance for me?”

His eyes caress my body with the same possession he did before. Heat rushes my cheeks and I cross my arms over my chest.

“I panicked, okay? I’m sorry.”

His expression shifts, the earlier cold tension morphing into something else entirely.

“So, then you’re smart enough to understand the predicament that you’re in.” He smirks, wiping away the vulnerability. He tosses the towel on the table and walks toward me, grasping my neck lightly.

“What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

“He’s my ex.”

“Answer the question.”

My mind scrambles to rifle through my memory for any names I might recall that we have on Dead Demons.

“Maverick,” I stutter.

“Where are their headquarters?”

“In the mountains, off the highway a bit.”

A deep line of silence sits between us, and there’s no emotion on his features for me to read, to sense whether or not he believes me.

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