My stomach drops so hard I have to steady myself on the desk’s edge. The letters line up. They’re the same jagged capitals I’ve seen two times now: angry, quick, like the writer was punching the letters into the paper. The quirk on the R, the long slash on the T—the same brutal signature stretched across two different pages. The realization slams into me like a fist.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, not really sure what else I can say in this moment.
Her eyes are wide when she meets mine. “So itisabout me.”
I fold the card back into its envelope as if the motion could erase the truth it carries. “Whoever wrote this,” I say, every word weighted, “they’ve been watching you longer than we realized.”
A silence swells between us, thick as storm clouds. She crosses her arms tight around herself, as if she can physically keep her body from unraveling. Her shoulders tremble under the strain. I step forward before she can fold too far into the shadows of her own head, pulling her into me. Her frame collides with my chest—small, fragile, shaking. Her pulse beats frantic against the side of my throat, wild and erratic like a bird desperate to escape its cage. I hold her tighter, steady, because right now it’s the only thing I can offer.
“We’ll figure this out,” I murmur into her hair, the words low, rough, absolute. “I swear it. But until we do, you need to understand something—whether you want to believe it or not, you’re a target. And I’m not about to let you become his last.”
TWENTY-THREE
RAELYNN
“Why is this necessary?”I exclaim, breathless, as my ass smacks the mat for what feels like the hundredth damn time tonight.
The dull thud reverberates through the nearly empty gym, stealing the air out of me. I gasp, arching my back, sweat beading and tracking down the hollow of my spine. Loose strands of hair have escaped my ponytail and cling stubbornly to my temples. My palms sting from catching myself wrong—again—and a curse slips through my teeth as I roll to the side, glaring up at him.
After Liam and Bailey were killed, after we found out that someone had been stalking me for longer than we thought, I (begrudgingly) agreed to this whole self-defense thing. Because apparently, in Emilio’s words, I “couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag.”Fuck you too, Emilio.But the bastard wasn’t wrong. My self-defense skills are absolute shit. I know I need to work on them if I ever want to make it as a detective, but hearing it out loud stung, and every slam onto the floor tonight feels like him grinding it in.
“I told you not to go easy on me,” I snap, shoving up onto my elbows, my chest heaving. “Guess I should’ve specified don’t toss me around like a ragdoll either.”
Emilio looms above me, lips curved into that infuriating smirk that makes me want to slap him almost as much as kiss him. His navy shirt clings to him, plastered to his chest and shoulders, the fabric darkened with sweat that highlights every solid line of muscle. His curls are mussed, damp, sticking to his forehead. Even under the flat glare of the fluorescents, which bleach everything in the room, he looks criminally good—like a sin wrapped in sweat and muscle.
He extends his hand towards me, his palm rough and calloused from years of use, and I take it. His grip swallows mine, hauling me to my feet with no effort at all. He holds me there a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against my knuckles before he finally steps back. His stance resets instantly—shoulders squared, knees bent, ready for me to come at him again.
“You want me to take it easy?” His tone is low, patient, too damn calm for someone who just flattened me. “That’s not how this works. Out there, no one cares if you fall hard. They won’t stop until you’re down and bleeding. You need to know how to fight back—with or without a weapon.”
The station’s gym is deserted at this hour, just like he wanted. Past midnight, the overnight shift barely trickles in here. The gym is half lit by fluorescent lights and half by natural light: one bank of bulbs buzzes, casting harsh, white rectangles across the mats; the rest of the room smolders in softer shadows. The mats beneath us are scarred with years of use, rough against my palms every time I hit the floor. The smell in here is a mix of disinfectant, sweat, and old rubber from the stacked dumbbells and weight benches along the wall. Treadmills and ellipticals sit across the room, their screens still glowing faintly from whoeverlast used them. Resistance bands hang from hooks, a jump rope coiled lazily nearby. Every sound—the squeak of our shoes, the snap of the mats under impact—feels amplified in the emptiness.
I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the ache that’s settled deep into the muscles. My lungs burn with every breath, heat coiling under my skin, made worse by the cling of my shirt, which is plastered to me with sweat. My sports bra holds me steady, but it doesn’t stop the flush creeping higher under the weight of Emilio’s gaze.
“You just like knocking me down,” I mutter, circling him.
“Maybe.” That dangerous grin curves his mouth, slow and deliberate. He flexes his hands and motions me forward with a tilt of his chin. “But that’s not the point. I need to know you’ll fight. That you won’t freeze if someone corners you.”
“And what if they’ve got a knife?” I shoot back, frustration boiling over. “What then?”
His eyes narrow, and his voice comes out hard, unflinching. “Then you don’t hesitate. You fight like your life depends on it, because it does. Eyes, throat, groin, wherever you can strike. You make them regreteverthinking they could put a blade near you. You take the opening, Rae, no matter how dirty it feels.”
The words land hard, heavier than I expect.
My jaw tightens as irritation and adrenaline collide in a single, reckless surge. I lunge, aiming the way he showed me. He registers the move quickly and sidesteps with infuriating precision, catching my wrist and spinning me so fast the room tilts. My back slams into his chest, hard muscle absorbing the impact as his arm bands around me, pinning me in place.
His breath ghosts the shell of my ear when he murmurs, “Again.” The word vibrates through me, low and commanding, and my stomach flips traitorously.
I squirm, jamming my elbow back, but he shifts effortlessly, catching every move before I can finish it. My pulse spikes, notjust from the fight, but from the solid wall of his chest pressed against my back, the heat rolling off him, the rough sound of his breath against my skin.
“Let me go,” I pant. My voice comes out thin, breathless, lacking the bite I want.
“You think an attacker’s going to let you go because you asked nicely?” His tone drips with mockery, lips grazing my ear again, and the fleeting contact sends a shiver ripping down my spine I can’t hide.
I freeze—just a second too long—and that is all he needs. His grip tightens, sweeping my legs out from under me, and I crash down hard. My knees skid across the mat, the burn sharp, and then he’s on me again, and though he never crosses the line into hurting me, the control is his.
“Fight, pretty girl,” he orders, voice rough and uncompromising. “Don’t stop until you’re free.”
I push back with everything I have, muscles straining until they shake, and for a breath, he lets me think I’ve gained ground—before slamming me flat again. My back bounces off the mat with a jolt, the breath ripped out of me.
