He did. Barely. His pupils were blown wide, his mouth parted, sweat beading his hairline.
“Alejandro… don’t stop,” he said, his voice cracking.
I didn’t.
He came first, shuddering hard, clutching my shoulders as if he needed something to anchor him. The heat of him spilled over my hand, and his whole body shook with it.
He went slack, and the noise he made dragged me over the edge, my hips jerking as pleasure tore through me.
For a few long seconds, the world was just breath and warmth and the thudding of our hearts.
Then he pulled back, fast, as if realization hit him all at once. The smell of sweat and sex hung between us. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths.
“This never happened,” he said, his voice raw and unsteady.
I lied because it was the only thing he’d take. “Sure.”
He gestured for me to leave, slamming the door behind me as if he could draw a line under what we’d done. He was wrong. He’d been waiting for me—braced for this collision long before I stepped inside. I’d walked straight into him, into whatever was building between us, and the truth hit hard: this thing between us wasn’t over. Not even close.
NINE
Levi
I didn’t sleepafter Doc—Alejandro—left. Every time I closed my eyes, the dark pressed in, and all I could see was him walking away. No looking back. One minute, Alejandro was there, his breath still on my skin, and the next, the apartment was empty—just the faint smell of him lingering, fading by the hour. I told myself it didn’t matter and that it had meant nothing.
But the pretending didn’t hold, and by the time I walked into the precinct the next morning, all I felt was stupid for letting a criminal who’d stalked me to my own home put his hands on me. Still wanting him when I shouldn’t, when every instinct said to run, and resigned to the fact that wanting the wrong man was just one more thing I’d fucked up.
The lights were too bright, buzzing with that cheap fluorescent hum that drilled behind my eyes as I got coffee. People moved around me, voices overlapping, the whole place feeling louder than it had any right to be because I was tired and lost in thought. Some of them spoke to me, and I think I answered, but it was all distant—shock settling in, bruised and guilty in a way that felt bone-deep.
He watched a man die. I should hate him.
I watched a man die. I should hate myself.
Frank took one look at me and raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”
“Didn’t sleep,” I muttered, dropping into my chair.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t push, but the look he gave me said he could smell the lie.
We were barely settled when Davis called the morning meeting for every detective, cop, and administrator who was at their desks. We filed into the conference room, coffees in hand, folders under arms. I forced myself to focus, to sit straight, to look like the person I was supposed to be, nervous as if anyone could tell what I’d done. Then realized I was being absurd, because how in hell could anyone know?
Captain Davis tapped the SMART Board, and the display shifted to an X-ray—knee joint, clean metal glinting where bone should’ve been.
“We’ve got our second match yesterday,” he said. “On older remains. Titanium plate with a useful serial number. Marcus Lannon.” He glanced at me, and I stiffened. Marcus Lannon had been one of the names in the case against my father—a lost file, an overlooked key piece of evidence, another MC asshole who’d gotten away with murder. Was it the same guy? “There’s a file on him from ‘97.” That said it all without being explicit. It was the same man, one from my dad’s corruption case.
Across the room, Stanton cursed, staring right at me. “Marcus Lannon went missing in 2002. Before that, he served three years for MC activity—low-level enforcement and transport work. He only beat murder because dirty hands buried the case.”
Several people murmured—those like Stanton who knew my father’s case because they’d been there, others because they’d known the details secondhand. No one said anything to me directly—I wasn’t my father, and they knew better than to sayshit. Still, I could see their expressions—the kid must have known what his dad was doing—but how the fuck was that possible given I’d been nine when it happened, and twelve when my dad was murdered in prison.
As people shoved back their chairs and filed out, Stanton stopped in front of me, “Maybe we should save ourselves the trouble and pull you off the case.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Before you ruin this one, too. You’re a liability, Rosen—just like your father.”
Someone near the doorway grunted in agreement—ugly, quiet, and meant to sting.
Temper flared hot in my chest and made my vision tighten—but I shoved it down, forced it back where it belonged.
Almost.
“Stanton. Rosen,” Davis said over the shuffle of people leaving. “My office.”
