Petal lets out a squeaky yip. I stop, shift her around, and pull the zipper all the way up to keep her secure.
“Lazy cow,” I mutter, starting to run again. “You’ve got wheels.”
If I want that kind of power, I’ll have to earn it. Killing Marlowe’s stalker is a start. The price on her head, though? That’s a bigger problem. Her da’s still missing. I’m not tellingCloris a fucking thing yet. Let her think the stalker’s still alive. Fear buys me time.
Time to find Heston Briggs. Time to make sure Molly’s more than temporarily safe.
The Mario problem? He can wait his turn.
By the time Arnold, Petal, and I drag ourselves back to the house, I’m sweat-soaked but a hell of a lot calmer. A new pair of guards, a man and a woman, are across the street now, laughing like old friends. Brendan’s shift is over.
Inside, it’s chaos as usual.
Monarch trembles in a corner, Bruiser, who’s half his size, is sniffing and yapping. Clawzilla lifts his head, hisses at me, and turns his back, tail flicking.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, filling Arnold’s water bowl. “You can come for a run next time, if you get in your harness.”
He hisses again and stalks off.
Fiona’s belly-up in her bed, paws twitching. Pepper’s asleep, for once not telling someone to fuck off. Lola takes a swipe at my leg as I pass.
“Since when did this place become a zoo?” I grumble, ignoring the small detail that it’s mostly my fault.
I grab a laptop not hooked up to the Internet and plug in the USB drive.
More Marlowe. Pages and pages of her. Information blocks. Screenshotted chat threads from websites obsessing over dancers. Copy-pasted crap, all curated. Digital scrapbook from the mind of a lecherous creep.
There’s a downloaded “kidnap handbook” file from some dark corner of the web. That’s enough. I yank out the USB and set it aside with a note for Torin.
Nothing useful. Everything vile.
By the time I head upstairs, the anger’s back, simmering under my skin. I stop at Marlowe’s door, debatingknocking.
I don’t.
I shove the door open and slam it behind me. She jumps from where she’s stretched out on the floor, which is impressive given what she’s been through tonight.
I point at her. “What are you doing?”
“Exercising,” she says, a little breathless. “Sometimes it helps de-stress.”
She starts to stand. I shake my head and drink her in.
Tight Lycra shorts. Loose-fitting t-shirt. No bra. Her nipples pebble against the thin fabric.
“Fuck, Molly,” I say. “You really deserve a spanking.”
“For what?”
“For sneaking off. For nearly getting yourself raped by a stalker.” I shake my head. “On second thought, a spanking won’t cut it. And since you’re already on your hands and knees, come here.”
Her eyes flash. “Make me.”
“If I make you,” I say softly, “you might end up with all pain and no pleasure.”
“Who said being with you is pleasurable?”
“Unless you’re a pain whore, I’d say the countless orgasms I’ve given you,” I reply.
