I head to the exit and pick up my jacket. I’m already dressed in my signature tux. Not my usual attire for torturing and killing someone, but duty calls. The night is young and holds many pleasures, including the culmination of this little game I’m playing with Inara Ramos. My little bird. My cock swells in my slacks just thinking of the moment when she first lays eyes on me and knows. But I have no time to stroke one out and fantasize about it.
I have a gala to get to.
* * *
Inara
The NRPD CharityGala is in a building called the Corinthian, a gorgeous temple of white marble built in a NeoClassical style. The taxi spits me out on the sidewalk, and I hustle up the stairs, sneaking past pockets of people lined up to take pictures on the small stretch of red carpet they’ve provided for guests to pose for the press.
A flock of birds flies overhead, covering me in their shadow. They fade into the night, making me wonder if they were real at all.
The marks on my skin burn under my coat. I don’t want to take it off and bare my arms, but I make myself hand it and my big, ugly bag over to the coat check people. Tucked at the bottom of the bag are the boots I wore to work. I leave them but take my wallet and cell in my new clutch.
I also take the satin wrap, winding it over my arms. It still bears the faint scent of jasmine.
My new shoes are fashionable but hard and uncomfortable. The high heels pitch me forward, and I let the momentum carry me into the ballroom.
Since leaving the precinct, I’ve been in a daze. I splurged on shoes and a black clutch with gold hardware to match my new dress and then a taxi ride to get me here. I spent the trip staring at my phone, researching Shibari. The further down the research hole I tumble, the more certain I am.
My mystery dom is the killer I’m searching for.
But who is he? I don’t know his name. I’ve never seen his face.
And I don’t have any proof it was him. My visions guide me, but I need hard evidence. If I bring this to Burgess or Bonds, they’ll laugh me out of a job.
And I can’t tell them about my visions or the marks on my arms that match the victims. I shudder to think of what they’d say.
No, I have to investigate this lead on my own. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll head to Club Empire and try to get a name for my mystery dom. The club is notoriously private because of its high-end clientele, but I’ll flash my badge and threaten a warrant if I have to. Never mind what it would take to convince a judge to give me a warrant based on a vision and what barely qualifies as circumstantial evidence.
But first, I have to get this ball over with. I’ll find the chief, making sure he knows I’m here as ordered. I’ll pretend to schmooze with the donors, and the first chance I get, I’ll slip away.
I drift through the sea of socialites, my high heels striking a rhythm on the polished floor. There’s a band on a stage at the far end of the ballroom, and soft classical strains float above the crowd. I pass a highly decorated officer in her dress uniform, looking stiff and out of place as she studies the passing faces as if she’ll be quizzed on them later. I nod to her, and her gaze sweeps over me—up, down, and away. Once she saw my gown, she clocked me as another civilian.
I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to have something to occupy my hands. There’s a dark cloud forming over the room. . . more than just the oppressive energy of the crowd. Under my silken wrap, my bare arms prickle.
It’s as if I can sense someone watching over me. Not just anyone.Him.
There’s a noticeable split in the middle of the room, with cops on one side and wealthy philanthropists on the other. I walk the space between them alone. I pass a flock of ladies in gorgeous gowns. One of them turns and does a double-take when she sees my dress before narrowing her eyes.
“Is that Versace?”
“It was a gift,” I say and turn away.
My head’s still filled with images of the crime scenes. The marks that decorate the victims’ arms from elbows to wrists. The same marks on my own arms.
This is my favorite type of tie.
Little bird. . .
My instincts are leading me to my dom. I’m itching to leave this place and search him out, but I’m also dreading it. If I’m right, and he is the killer, that means I was alone with him. I let him tie me up.
I let him hold me.
And then, he left and killed someone. Someone who had happened to harass me that very night.
Is the mystery domhim?The one watching me? The one who’s been stalking me? Is he watching me, even now? Is he responsible for these murders? If so, how many times has he killed? Will he kill again?
Am I his next target?
