Page 36 of Pose for Me

I turn my attention to the case file spread out before me, photos of the latest victim staring up accusingly. Another body found this morning, dumped unceremoniously in a back alley like garbage. The victim's blank eyes seem to bore into me, demanding justice, demanding that I do my job.

I almost want to laugh. The irony isn't lost on me–a killer hunting another killer.

But this one, he's different. He doesn't discriminate, doesn't choose his victims based on any discernible pattern or moral code. He's a true predator, striking at random, leaving a trail of brutalized bodies in his wake.

Or at least that’s what we have led everyone else to believe.

As far as everyone thinks, the only thing that links each of the bodies are the very specific pattern of stab wounds, almost exactly the same on each body, and the very distinct two prong burn marks that are always found somewhere on the body. But what everyone else doesn't know is they are all on a list, a list known only to me and River, one we compiled of local criminals and abusers we deemed unfit to walk the streets.

My eyes linger on the most recent victim's photo, taking in the brutalized features, the glassy, lifeless stare. Gerald Kincaid, a drug dealer with a rap sheet longer than my arm and a penchant for violence against women and children. His name had been at the top of our list for over a year, but getting to him proved... challenging. He was well-insulated, always surrounded by a couple of lackeys or muscle.

I unlock my desk drawer and pull a worn leather journal from it, the cover soft and supple from years of handling. Flipping through the pages, I trace the names and details with my fingertip. Kincaid’s entry isn’t hard to find among the pages and a smile pulls at my lips as I take a pen and put a line through his page.

We keep a meticulous ledger, documenting every name that graces our list. Pedophiles, rapists, abusers of every variety—all those who have escaped the long arm of the law, we take it upon ourselves to punish them. Each entry is carefully researched, every shred of evidence scrutinized until we are certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that our target is guilty.

Once a name is on the list, it's only a matter of time.

We plan everything to the last detail – the location, the method, the cleanup. No traces left behind, no evidence to tie the kills back to us.

I feel River's presence before he takes a seat at his desk, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the acrid tang of station coffee and sweat. He moves with his usual fluid grace, settling into his chair with a soft sigh.

"It's done," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I nod, not needing to ask for clarification. The thought of even that little extra security at her place eases some of the tension coiled in my chest, knowing that even if we can't be there personally, we still have eyes on her.

Without a word, I stand, motioning for River to follow. He falls into step beside me as we make our way out of the precinct, our footsteps echoing in perfect sync down the linoleum-tiled hallway.

We step out into the late afternoon sun, the humid air immediately clinging to our skin. The street isn’t overly busy but there are still a few people rushing to and fro, oblivious to the predators walking among them. We make our way down the block to the bakery we frequent, the same one Rayne loves.

The bell above the door chimes softly as we enter, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans enveloping us. The barista, a petite redhead named Mia, gives us a familiar nod as we enter. She already has our usual orders started before we even open our mouths to speak.

We take our usual table in the back corner, positioned perfectly to keep an eye on both the entrance and the rear exit. Old habits die hard, even in a place as familiar as this. I pull out the worn leather journal, sliding it across the table to River.

"I crossed out the entry," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

River hums in response, his fingers tracing the embossed cover before flipping it open. His eyes scan the pages quickly, lingering on the freshly struck-through name. A small, satisfied smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

"Good riddance," he mutters, closing the journal with a soft thud. "One less scumbag on the streets."

I nod in agreement as River hops up again to retrieve our coffee from the counter, placing mine in front of me. Lifting the cup to my lips, I take a sip of my coffee and the rich and slightly bitter liquid burns a path down my throat, grounding me. River leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert as they scan our surroundings.

"We need to stop it soon," he says after a moment, his voice low and serious. "It's drawing too much attention."

I nod again, knowing he's right.

My thoughts inevitably drift back to Rayne, as they always do. The image of her pressed against that alley wall, head thrown back in ecstasy, is seared into my mind now. I can almost hear her breathy moans.

"You're lucky that photo didn't show your face," I murmur, my voice low and rough. "Or the body on the ground."

River tries to hide his grin behind his coffee cup, but fails miserably. His eyes dance with wicked amusement as he sets the mug down. "Come on, Knox," he teases. "You can't tell me you didn't find it at least a little hot."

I glare at him, but there's no real heat behind it. Because if I'm being honest with myself, that image was fucking hot. Rayne's curves on full display, River's powerful form looming behind her, the raw passion evident in every line of their bodies. The only thing that would have made it hotter was if I had been there too. The thought of it sends a jolt of arousal through me—River's body caught between mine and Rayne's, all of us moving together in perfect sync.

I shift in my seat, trying to adjust myself discreetly. River's knowing smirk tells me I'm not entirely successful.

"Imagining yourself in that alley with us?" he purrs, leaning in close. His breath ghosts over my ear, making me suppress a shiver. "I bet you wish you'd been there, pressed up against my back, fucking me while I fucked her."

My hand shoots out, gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise. "Careful," I warn, my voice a low growl. "You're playing with fire, Riv."

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