The lieutenant behind the desk glances at me, furrowing her brows. “Jesus, are you okay? Is that a bruise on your neck? Did somebody hurt you?”
Widening my eyes, remembering how Sin sank his teeth into my neck in a moment of pleasure, I wave my hand through the air dismissively. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m okay… but can I please speak to—”
“Good. You’refinallyhere. You went radio silent. I was beginning to wonder if we needed to send in a team to check on you. You better have information on the club for me?”
He stepped back, the distance a cold rush as he began buttoning his shirt. “It was nice while it lasted, wildcat.”
“Detective Delaney, do you have something to report, or do you just want to stand in my precinct looking like a gothic Harley Quinn all morning?” Special Agent Moretti snaps back at me, her tone clearly unamused.
Swallowing heavily, I pull out the notepad and recorder I’ve been using at the club, guilt wrapping around me like chains, tightening with every breath. Faces flash in my mind—their laughter, their trust, their moments of kindness.
They let me in, and now I’m about to betray them.
Betrayhim.
My stomach churns, my grip trembling.
This isn’t justice.
It’s a knife in the back, and I’m the one gripping the handle.
I’m so sorry, Sin.
“Yes, ma’am… I do.”
Chapter Seventeen
VICTORIA
The words taste like betrayal.
Detective Moretti’s eyes narrow, and I watch her assess me—the wrinkled dress, the mark on my neck, the way I’m gripping my notepad like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. She gestures toward the hallway with a sharp jerk of her chin.
“Briefing room.Now.”
I follow her through the precinct, past the drunk tank and the processing desk, past cops who don’t even glance my way. The fluorescent lights overhead hum that specific frequency that drills straight into my skull. Everything about this place feels wrong now—the institutional light gray walls, the wanted posters curling at their edges, the burned coffee smell that permeates everything.
This was supposed to be my purpose.
My path to justice for Marcus.
Now it just feels like I’m walking toward my own damn execution.
The briefing room door closes behind us with a hollow click. Moretti moves to sit, with her arms crossed, waiting. Files spread haphazardly across the table, crime scene photographs, witness statements, surveillance logs. A bureaucratic nightmare that she’s somehow supposed to wrangle into something presentable for the brass.
She looks drained. Not just tired—exhausted. The kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from fighting battles on too many fronts. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and gray strands escape from her severe bun.
“Detective Delaney.” Her voice is flat. Professional. Utterly devoid of warmth. “You’re late.”
“I know. I’m sorry, ma’am. Things got… complicated.” The words taste like fire on my tongue.
“Complicated.” She leans back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin. “Last I heard from you was four days ago. Radio silence since then. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to send a team to extract you.”
The implication hangs in the air between us.
That maybe I’d been compromised.
That maybe I’d gone rogue.
