Or that some part of me—the reckless, self-destructive part I usually ignored—was already wondering what it would feel like ifthose hands pinned me somewhere other than against a wall in a dark alley.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
I was already in enough trouble.
Chapter Two
Dominic
The couch was a punishment.
I'd slept in worse places—sand trenches, cargo holds, the back of surveillance vans—but Charlie's couch had its own special brand of misery. Too short for my frame, springs finding new pressure points every time I shifted, positioned directly under a vent that blasted cold air every twenty minutes.
She'd tossed me that blanket last night with a smile that said she knew exactly what she was sentencing me to.
I checked my watch. 0547. Close enough.
The apartment was quiet except for the sounds of the city waking up outside—distant traffic, a garbage truck grinding down the street, someone's alarm clock bleeding through the thin walls. Charlie had finally stopped tossing around 0200, after hours of restless shifting. I'd heard every movement, each frustrated sigh. Then around 0530, she'd given up on sleep entirely—announced it with a cabinet slam that rattled every dish she owned. Subtle as a grenade.
Now the bathroom door was closed, shower running.
I sat up, rolled my shoulders to work out the kinks, and pulled my laptop from my go-bag. Might as well use the time.
From the couch, I had a clear line of sight to the window where the new glass had been installed two days ago—after the bullet. The glazier had done clean work, but the frame still showed stress marks if you knew where to look. Above the bed, a tapestry hung slightly off-center, and I'd bet money it was covering something she didn't want to see when she closed her eyes. Graffiti, damage—a reminder of the threats.
Charlie's case file was dense for someone who'd only been on Heartline's radar for twelve hours. Her editor had pulled together a list of every story she'd broken in the past five years, and it read like a hit parade of Cupid City's worst-kept secrets—political corruption, financial fraud, a socialite's underground gambling ring, a CEO with alleged mob ties. Any one of them could be behind the threats. I flagged the names and started cross-referencing.
My phone buzzed. Cass Rhodes, my boss at Heartline.
"Knight."
"How's our nightmare client?"
"Alive. Stubborn. Possibly plotting my murder via furniture."
"The couch?"
"The couch."
A dry laugh. "She'll warm up to you. We're running backgrounds on everyone connected to her recent stories—should have preliminary intel by end of day. In the meantime, standard close-protection protocols. Keep her close."
"Copy that."
High-risk, high-maintenance. I'd handled worse. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
