His lips brushed the shell of my ear.
Warm breath skimming my skin.
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He murmured low, “To build a case against me and lock me up... my cute little FBI agent?”
My pulse exploded in my veins.
He knew.
He had known all along.
This wasn’t ignorance. It was calculated tolerance.
He had allowed me to walk freely through his house.
Allowed me to inspect.
Allowed me to access restricted areas.
Because he was confident. Too confident.
“Do you really think,” he continued softly, tightening his grip slightly, “that I let you disappear for four years without eyes on you?”
My stomach twisted.
“You think your brothers were the only ones watching?”
His fingers pressed harder around my wrist — forcing the barrel of my gun higher, controlling its direction.
“I had people shadowing you.”
His voice dropped further. “Silently. Invisibly.”
My breathing accelerated.
“Every photo. Every training session. Your graduation ceremony at the academy.”
My mind flashed through memories.
FBI academy. Field exercises. Diploma day.
Was he telling the truth?
Or bluffing?
“I watched you join the Bureau.”
The words landed like a violation.
“I watched you graduate.”
My skin crawled.
“And your boss — Vincent?”
My heart froze. “He works for me.”
The sentence detonated inside my chest.
