Page 78 of Beneath the Surface

Brad hesitated, and Jesse pounced on it. “Let me ask you this, then. How long did it take you to read Isobel?”

Both Brad and Larson stiffened, their expressions darkening. Jesse smirked, clearly enjoying their discomfort. “Oh, don’t play coy with me. You both saw it. She carries herself like she’s in control, but underneath… she’s submissive, isn’t she?”

“Watch it, Jesse,” Brad growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Relax.” Jesse held up a hand. “I’m not insulting her. Quite the opposite. Submissives like Isobel are special. Strong, intelligent, independent—and yet deeply submissive at their core. A man like Hale? He’d spot that a mile away. And if he’s the kind of predator I think he is, she’s the true conquest. He’sobsessed with her because she represents something no one else does.”

Larson’s jaw tightened. “If you’re suggesting Isobel’s in more danger because of her submissive nature?—”

“I’m not suggesting it,” Jesse interrupted. “I’m telling you. A man like Hale thrives on control, and nothing tempts him more than a challenge. Isobel isn’t just another victim, in his mind. She’s the ultimate prize.”

Brad’s fists clenched, but before he could respond, Jesse shifted the conversation. “Now, let’s talk logistics. There are four adult clubs in South Dakota that cater to our kind. The rest of the events are more like traveling shows—hotel takeovers, private estate parties, that sort of thing. If Hale’s into non-consenting sadism, only one club would allow it.”

“Hot Shots,” Larson said, his tone grim.

“Exactly,” Jesse replied. “But if I were him, I wouldn’t be operating out of a club. Too many variables, too many witnesses. More thorough vetting. He’d want a space he can control completely.”

“Agreed,” Brad said. “But we still need to check out Hot Shots. Any leads there?”

Jesse sighed, scanning the reports on his desk. “Here’s the thing. Every psychologist he’s targeted suffered similar wounds. The patterns are too precise, like he’s running a damn research study. And there’s another thing—the autopsies showed no trace of bodily fluids. No DNA transfer from a previous victim.”

“Meaning?” Larson asked.

“My guess? He’s breaking in new gear every time. Whips, crops, masks, hoods—you name it. Even with the best cleaning techniques, there’d still be microscopic transfer. But with new equipment? Clean slate. Check supply houses. He’s sharpening his skills, refining his methods, and when the victims reach their breaking point—game over.”

Brad exhaled slowly, the weight of the case pressing down on him. “So what now?”

Jesse leaned back, steepling his fingers. “I’ll make a call to Mistress Raven at Hot Shots. She’s… discerning, but she might be willing to meet with you. If you leave now, you can catch her before they open.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Mistress Raven?”

Jesse smirked. “Oh, she’s not one to suffer fools. Watching two Doms like you meet a Domme like her? I’d pay to be a fly on that wall.”

Both Brad and Larson growled in unison, and Jesse laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. But seriously—she’s one of the best sources you’ll find. If there’s even a whisper of Hale in her circles, she’ll know.”

Brad stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “And you?”

“I’ll keep digging,” Jesse replied, his tone growing serious. “I’ll see if I can find any party locations or private spaces that match Hale’s needs. This guy is methodical, but everyone makes mistakes. Good luck.”

Brad nodded, his expression hard as stone. “Thanks, Jesse.”

As they left the office, the rain still poured outside. The storm was far from over—both outside and in.

Miles away,as Isobel looked out the window of Sophie’s house, she began a search of property records under the names of Malcolm Hale and Hale’s uncle, Phineas Phillips. Watching the rain pour down in thick sheets, she felt a sudden, inexplicable coldness rush through her. Her breath hitched inher throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Something was off. She knew it in her bones.

Isobel heard the piercing scream rip through the quiet house. Her heart lurched as she bolted from Tristan’s office, her laptop clattering to the floor. The sound was unmistakable—pain, raw and unbearable.

She skidded into the living room to find Molly crumpled on the floor in a fetal position, her body trembling. Blood was pooling beneath her thighs, staining the hardwood floor a deep crimson. Sophie knelt beside her, panic etched on her face, pressing a towel between Molly's thighs in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Isobel!” Sophie’s voice was sharp, frantic. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

Isobel froze, her mind racing. “What about the acute care ward at the Institute? They might have?—”

“They don’t have the blood she needs,” Sophie interrupted. “She’s losing too much too fast.”

Charlotte was crouched on Molly’s other side, holding her hand as she writhed in pain. “It’s okay, Molly, we’ve got you. Just breathe. Stay with us.”

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hall as Dillon and Riley appeared, their faces grim. Without a word, they assessed the scene. Riley scooped Molly up as carefully as he could while Dillon grabbed Sophie and Isobel by the shoulders. “We’ll take her in the patrol car. No time for an ambulance.”

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