Page 11 of To Catch A Rook

I flicked on the microphone.

“Go away, Kellan. I don’t have the energy for you tonight.”

The hulking man turned to face the camera in the top right corner of the small alcove and quirked a thick blond eyebrow at the screen.

“I can disable your system in two minutes, Hill. Let me in, or I’ll come in myself.”

I pursed my lips to contain the forming grin. The arrogance of this man was one of my favorite traits about him … and the one I liked to entertain the least.

“Challenge accepted, Mountain Man. Do your worst. The police chief and I are buddies.”

Kellan’s booming laugh echoed through the tinny speaker of my cell. “I wouldn’t count on it. You’re scary, Killer, but he’s more afraid of me.”

He pulled out a thin metal device from his pocket and tapped it against his palm. I stared incredulously as my screen immediately faded to a deep gray then fizzled out entirely.

Martin chuckled beside me. “If I leave now, will the roof still be on this building tomorrow?”

“If it’s not, he’s paying for it,” I grumbled. Despite the circumstances, the butterflies of eager anticipation outnumbered the zings of irritation pumping through my bloodstream.

This building had nearly half a million in security upgrades, yet here I was, just waiting for the big oaf himself to break into my fortress as promised.

If Marty wasn’t here and I wasn’t so dead tired, I might be tempted to play an adult game of hide-and-seek throughout the stone and glass of the modern loft space, but I was fresh out of fun to give. Kellan had stood me up for the last time; I wasn’t about to give him an out before a very satisfying grovel.

The Viking gave me his cock and his kisses on a silver platter, but "I’m sorry" wouldn’t be on the menu tonight. The expectation of a grovel from Kellan was as satisfying as a Play-Doh dildo.

One minute and forty-seven seconds later, the shadowy figure of a miniature Hulk strolled through my main office doorway. I tracked his smooth movements through the glass walls of my open office space as he sauntered toward us. A dangerous grin spread wide across his angular cheekbones that shot fiery sparks deep into my belly.

When he officially made his presence known in front of my suite, he leaned casually against the doorway and shoved his hands in his pockets as he jutted his chin in challenge.

“You were saying?”

“My cue to leave!” Martin beamed cheerfully as he slid off the cream leather sofa, grabbing the navy suit jacket he’d tossed between us. He turned to the challenging commando still taking up space in my doorway, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

I didn’t need to see the wink to know it had come and gone—Marty’s cheekiness was his trademark attempt to lower the boiling temperature in the room. It was why we worked so well together. I was a notable hothead, and Martin knew just how to defuse me—most of the time.

Kellan, however, shot the mercury out of the thermometer, toxic fumes be damned. He poked and prodded until one of us detonated—a constant game of apocalyptic cat and mouse.

He grunted in a Neanderthal form of acknowledgment as Martin squeezed past him, but his dark blue gaze never shifted from mine.

A burgeoning silence took over the space, filled with all the words we couldn’t say out loud. I breathed evenly through it, determined not to be the first to crack.

Instead, I took in his appearance; his crisp sky-blue dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the myriad of rich, colorful tattoos across his neck and chest. Rolled up sleeves exposed the colorful artwork on his forearms; a black leather cuff bracelet encircled one wrist, and a tasteful, moderately expensive watch on the other.

Thick thighs and firm ass crammed into a tight black pair of dress pants, and the leather loafers on his feet looked like they belonged in a fashion magazine, not on the intimidating Viking king.

“A little songbird told me you’d be here tonight.”

His deep voice was as gruff as sandpaper and as smooth as fine silk. The man was a walking dichotomy, treading the line of dark and light with every footstep. A twisted, tortured soul.

A tortured soul who was acoward.

My victory at not being the first to speak was short-lived at the realization Kellan had spoken to Winter instead of reaching out to me.

I injected steel straight into my spine and stood to my full height, diverting the heat simmering in my core to fuel the fire in my eyes.

“You don’t need to spy on me through your sister-in-law,” I retorted dryly and folded my arms across my chest. “You could pick up your phone and call me.”

He rose slowly off the door, angling his body to face mine as he mimicked my stance. I knew this tactic well—I used it daily. He wasn’t going to FBI-psychologymeby mirroring my movements to appear less threatening.

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