Page 26 of Seek Me Darling

But it's the next one that hits me like a physical blow.

There I am on my deck, completely naked under the moonlight, head thrown back. Every intimate detail captured with perfect clarity—my fingers between my thighs, my expression fierce and challenging. Picking up more, I can see the photographer varied their position, some shots close, others from a distance, documenting my deliberate display from multiple angles.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I mutter, my fingers trembling slightly.

I should be furious. I should be calling for backup, sweeping the house, filing reports, sleeping with a knife under my pillow. That would be the rational response. The correct response. But the burning in my stomach isn't just anger or fear—there's something else there, something dark and twisted that I refuse to examine too closely.

God, I'm fucked in the head.

Because part of me—a part I'd never admit to anyone—is fascinated. Impressed, even. They were in my fucking bedroom while I slept. Could have done anything. Could have hurt me, killed me. But instead, they left pictures. Evidence. A declaration. Whoever took these has serious balls—or a death wish. Maybe both.

Normal people don't get turned on by being stalked. Normal people call the police or keep a gun close. But here I am, some twisted part of me actually enjoying the dangerous thrill of… whatever is happening here.

I gather the photos into a stack, noticing several black roses arranged artfully on my nightstand that I'd initially missed in my shock. Nestled among them is a simple white card. I reach for it, flipping it over to read the elegant script and a laugh bubbles up from my chest, sharp and slightly unhinged. The absolute audacity. The sheer fucking confidence.

Chapter 12

Seanna

Afterahotshowerthat barely nudges away the lingering tension, I dress quickly, pulling on my standard dark jeans and a form-fitting black top. My badge and gun feel comfortably heavy at my hip as I grab my leather jacket and head out the door, locking it firmly behind me, even though part of me sneers at the futile gesture. Whoever’s sending me those creepy-ass packages sure as hell doesn’t care about locked doors or boundaries. Or even personal fucking space.

Traffic to the DEA is a nightmare—bumper-to-bumper, horns blaring, and my irritation spikes as I sit stuck behind a minivan moving at the speed of molasses. By the time I reach the office, my mood is firmly set to "touch me and lose a finger."

The bullpen today is a swirling cesspool of chaos—agents darting between desks, phones ringing off the hook, and everyone apparently trying to talk over each other like they're auditioning for a role in some shitty cop drama. I cut through it all like a shark, ignoring the sidelong glances and hushed whispers that follow me. Let them talk. I've got bigger problems than office gossip.

Jensen's already at his desk, surrounded by stacks of files and empty coffee cups, his usually immaculate appearance slightly rumpled. Matteo sits nearby, his dark eyes fixed intently on his computer screen, one hand absently tapping a pen against the edge of his desk in a rapid, inconsistent rhythm. But it's Eli who catches my attention—hunched over his keyboard, jaw clenched tight, none of his usual playful energy visible in the hard lines of his face.

"Morning, sunshine," Jensen drawls as I approach, raising an eyebrow at whatever expression is currently plastered across my face. "You look like you're ready to commit a few felonies before lunch."

"Only a few?" I drop into my chair, tossing my phone onto the desk with more force than necessary. "I've already mentally committed at least a dozen on my drive here."

Eli doesn't even look up, just grunts softly in acknowledgment. His fingers move aggressively across the keyboard, the clicking unusually sharp and impatient. This is the Eli few people see—the one beneath the jokes and flirtation, all sharp edges and cold efficiency.

"What's got you so wound up?" I ask him directly, narrowing my eyes at his unusual silence.

He finally glances up, and the intensity in his gaze catches me off guard. Gone is the carefree jokester, replaced by something harder, almost predatory. "Vega's good," he says, voice clipped. "Too good. Every time I think I've got a digital foothold, it slips away. Someone's scrubbing his tracks almost as fast as I can find them."

"Which means he's more than just a courier," Matteo interjects, leaning forward. "Someone's protecting him—someone with resources."

Jensen nods, sliding a folder across the desk to me. "Got the surveillance reports back from PD. They've been shadowing all our targets around the clock." He taps the file meaningfully. "Interesting patterns emerging."

I flip open the folder, scanning quickly through the neatly organized reports. Cruz has been behaving exactly as expected—running his club, meeting with his usual contacts, nothing out of the ordinary beyond our upcoming meeting. Mendoza's been spotted at several high-end restaurants, always with different companions, conversations kept casual but body language screaming business. Navarro's movements have been more erratic—never in one place for too long, constantly checking over his shoulder.

But it's Vega who catches my interest. The surveillance on him is the sketchiest of all—brief glimpses at traffic cameras, a few distant shots from storefronts, but nothing substantial. He moves like someone who knows he's being watched, using blind spots and timing his movements to avoid established patterns. Smart. Methodical. Dangerous.

"He knows exactly what he's doing," I mutter, tapping my finger against Vega's grainy surveillance photo. "This isn't amateur hour. He's been trained."

"That's what I've been saying," Eli says sharply, frustration evident in the tight line of his jaw. "Whoever Vega is, he's not just some errand boy. The digital countermeasures around him are professional-grade, military precision. Every time I think I've found a thread to pull, it vanishes."

Jensen leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "So what's the play here? We're spread thin trying to monitor all four simultaneously, and Cruz is expecting to meet with 'Samantha' tomorrow."

I drum my fingers against the desk, mind racing through possible next steps. "We stick with the plan. Cruz is still our best entry point. Matteo, I want you with me for that meeting—you'll play my silent backup. Jensen, you and Eli keep pushing on Vega. If he's as protected as he seems, he's the closest we've gotten to Reyes' inner circle."

Matteo nods, his dark eyes calculating. "Cruz will try to test you, see if you're legitimate. We should prepare for that."

"Let him try," I reply coldly. "I'm ready to play whatever game he wants."

Eli's phone buzzes, and he glances down, his expression shifting to something even sharper as he reads the message. "Interesting. PD just spotted Vega entering a private gallery downtown. Looks like he's picking up something—a package or artwork, they can't tell from their position."

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