The contact reminds me of how those same hands felt on my body, how his fingers dug into my hips while he took me against stone wall with desperate urgency. The memory makes my pulse spike.
"I will." The promise comes out breathier than intended.
His thumb brushes my lower lip once, possessive and gentle at the same time, before he forces himself to let go. I slide out of the truck before either of us can do something stupid in broad daylight two blocks from my station, but I feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk away.
The station smells like stale coffee and old files when I enter. Rhona looks up from her desk, her expression carefully neutral.
"Morning, Chief. Heard there was excitement at the harbor last night."
"Unconfirmed reports that led nowhere." I keep my voice professional, detached. "I'm filing the incident report for the mainland now."
I settle at my desk and open my laptop, forcing myself to focus on the fabricated narrative I need to document instead of the memory of Kian's thumb against my lip, the amber heat in his eyes, the barely controlled violence that should terrify me but instead makes my body respond in ways that complicate everything.
My phone vibrates with another text.
Your morning routine is quite predictable. Office by nine. Always the same route from your cottage.
Except I didn't come from my cottage this morning. I came from the safe house. They're working from old intelligence, which means their surveillance isn't as comprehensive as they want me to believe.
The realization steadies me slightly. They're trying to make me panic, make me sloppy. I won't give them the satisfaction.
I spend the next hour documenting the "investigation" into last night's reports. Witness statements that don't exist. Search parameters that covered empty warehouses. The careful construction of a dead end that will satisfy Lansing without exposing the truth.
My phone buzzes again mid-morning, but this time it's not the syndicate. It's Kian.
Lunch. One hour. The warehouse.
I shouldn't smile at the command, at the presumption that I'll just obey because he says so. But my mouth curves anyway, body already anticipating seeing him again.
An hour later, I tell Rhona I'm following up on last night's reports and head out. The warehouse sits quiet when I arrive, all evidence of last night's violence erased. The brotherhood's cleanup was thorough.
Kian's truck is parked inside. He's waiting near the loading dock with takeaway containers from the pub, cleaned up now but still carrying that dangerous edge.
"You can't be here." The protest sounds weak even to my ears.
"I own the building." He gestures to the containers. "You need to eat. And I need to know you're still breathing."
"I've been breathing for the past three hours without your supervision."
"Three hours too long." He opens one container—fish and chips, the scent making my stomach remind me I haven't eaten since yesterday. "Sit. Eat. Let me pretend I'm not losing my mind keeping distance from you while the syndicate sends threats."
The raw honesty in his voice stops my next argument. I settle on a crate beside the loading dock. He takes another crate across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch, and watches me with focus that feels like a physical touch.
"You're staring." I pick up a chip, hyperaware of his gaze tracking the movement.
"I'm memorizing." His voice drops lower. "In case the syndicate manages what they're planning before I can stop them."
The admission hits harder than it should. "You'll stop them."
"I will." No hesitation, just flat certainty. "But they're escalating faster than I anticipated. The texts, the surveillance, knowing your routines." His hand moves across the space between us, fingers brushing mine where they rest beside the container. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "I don't like how exposed you are."
"I'm a cop. Exposure comes with the job."
"You're not just a cop anymore." His jaw clenches. "You're in this with us now. The syndicate knows it, which makes you a target they'll prioritize."
I lean forward slightly, drawn by something I don't fully understand. "What are you actually worried about, Kian?"
His jaw tightens. "That I'm going to walk into your station and find you dead because I was too slow. That they'll corner you somewhere I can't reach in time. That this thing between us—whatever the fuck it is—will get you killed before we figure out what it means."
