Page 49 of To Catch A Rook

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Killer?”

We continued our stare down, not giving the other an inch. It was always like this with her; the push and pull of a rubber band close to snapping.

“Tell me why the fuck, two days after the Rodriguez’ announce their little ‘departure’, I’m being investigated for workplace harassment?”

I squinted at the piece of paper crumpled within her fist. Wordlessly, I held out a hand. She all but threw it into my face.

I smoothed out the official-looking court document on the surface of my desk and scanned through it. It was a fake—a solid forgery—but definitely fake.

“This isn’t ours, Hill. Somebody is fucking with you.”

She sputtered and for a split-second, she had nothing to say. That reprieve didn’t last long, though.

“This isn’t yours?”

Sheleveled those sky-blue eyes at me, not wanting to believe me, but clearly not wanting the opposite, either.

I matched her stare, leaning in to the depthless eyes where I loved to fall when she gave me total control. It had been too long, but not nearly long enough. I put on the brakes every time I started to crave her, knowing my sobriety did nothing to solve my addiction to her smell, her skin, her taste.

“No.” It was a simple answer. There was no investigation, not by this division, but someone did a decent enough job to make the doc look real.

A haughty blonde brow raised in annoyance.

“Then help me catch the fucker who’s wasting my time,” she snapped, but the demand had less bite than her original entrance.

She folded herself into the twenty-dollar office chair and kicked off her heels, stretching her body out with the grace of a panther. I knew just how lithe that body could be, on the mat and in my bed.

“Is this sort of ‘help’ the same as your version of Guantanamo?” I stood from my cheap seat in need of a stretch myself and ambled to the front of the desk. Leaning against it, I stared down my nose at her. Like it or not, she would get this message. “I’m not helping you with any more of that shit, Killer.”

“You secured me a small piece of real estate, Kellan,” she retorted, meeting my stare with a fiery one of her own. “How typical of a man to make himself more important than he is.”

I didn’t stifle the snort this time. “Cute.” I picked up the wrinkled paper and held it up to the light. “I’m going to keep this, but the FBI isn’t interested in you.You’renot that important.”

If the FBI knew exactly what she was up to in the late hours with Sammy and her crack team, they would very much be interested, but I’d covered up any trace of what she hadn’t already done herself.

I would make sure they—we—never found her, even if she was cutting off cocks.

A condescending, unamused scoff escaped those pillowy lips, but she was undeterred, as always. I loved her fierceness. Even if it made me want to smother her with a pillow on a good day.

“What do you know about Alvarez, Kellan?”

She switched gears faster than I expected, but I should have known the question was coming. Maybe she forged the document herself as a reason to barge in on me—nothing was off the table when Hillary was on a mission. But I was serious about this one. If Antonio and Alvarez were about to go head-to-head, this town—this state—was about to get a hell of a lot more dangerous.

I leaned over the rickety chair, surrounding her with my bulk and the heat of my body. The floral notes on her skin were as familiar as the smell of her cunt when she was desperate for me, and both brought the same reaction to the head of my dick.

I lowered my mouth to her ear, brushing my lips against the shell. “Listen carefully, my pretty little killer. A bigger game is being played here. I don’t know all the players yet, but this town is on the verge of a turf war, and I’ll chain you to a fucking wall myself if it means you’re not getting in the middle of it.”

She pushed at my chest, barely budging me, but her tone was acidic enough to burn. “I know how to dance with demons, Kellan. If Alvarez is bringing unwilling girls into this town, I’ll kill him before he gets the chance to kill them.”

Before now, I’d assumed this crusade was just another cause this woman liked to chase—something to validate the pure chance of being born into extreme wealth and needing to compensate for it. The vehemence in her tone was as familiar to me as if I’d said the words myself.

The truth was written in the clench of her jaw and the intense determination in her eyes. I’d been wrong. The castrations were personal. When something was personal, nothing would stop her from finishing what she’d started. Even if that goal was impossible, like keeping the flesh market out of the state. Antonio himself didn’t have that kind of power.

Sick men and women would always take advantage of other men and women. It was a sad truth of life. Hillary would never achieve her goal.

She likely knew that. My Killer was the smartest person in the room most times; she knew the statistics; she knew the risks. Acid bubbled to the base of my esophagus at what that meant.

Hillary had unresolved trauma with a sexual predator and was playing Batwoman to ease the burden. The acerbic taste burned a hole through my stomach; I’d need a full bottle of Tums later.

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