“Thisisjustice. And you’d know the difference if you hada soul.”
His jaw tightens, eyes going flat. “You’ll regret this in court.”
“Not in this lifetime.” I pick up the file, tap it once against my finger. “I’m coming for him.”
For a beat, everything stills. Then Jon David steps back, straightens his cuffs, and slides the lawyer mask back over his face. His armor.
“Good luck, Laurette,” he says, smiling like the devil. “You’re going to need it.”
I smile right back, sweet and sharp. “It’s cute that you think that.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the room pulsing with adrenaline. I stand still, chest tight, fists curled at my sides.
Outside, the office hums. Phones ring. Footsteps pass. Voices rise and fade.
Inside, it’s just me and the storm under my ribs, the war drum of everything I refuse to bury, everything I refuse to forgive. Everything I’m coming for.
Chapter 23
Bastien Montclaire
Her struggle wasthe sweetest foreplay I’ve ever tasted.
The gym floor bites against my knuckles as I drop into push-ups. Slow, punishing reps, chest grazing the floor. Sweat hits the mat in sharp bursts. When my muscles shake, I keep going—forty more, fifty—until pain becomes rhythm. Pull-ups next. Weighted squats. The strain burns away thought and leaves only breath and grit.
But it isn’t enough. The memory of her, the way she trembled, the sound she made when I broke her open—all of it still hums under my skin.
I wrap my hands and turn to the bag. Leather meets flesh, dull thuds filling the air. Each strike lands harder than the last, methodical and ruthless. By the time I finish, my arms tremble. My lungs are raw, and my pulse is a steady roar.
The shower runs hot enough to burn. Steam curls around me, washing sweat and salt from my skin. The water scalds, but it doesn’t compare to the heat between Laurette and me.
Dressed, hair still damp, I drop into the chair by the window and reach for my phone. I open the app, the one synced with the tinytracker inside Laurette’s necklace. One tap, and her location flares bright on the screen.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth.
She slipped into this game like it was second nature, feeding the part of me that never stops hungering and never stops hunting. And the best part? She’s fully committed. She craves the attention, embraces the pressure, and hungers to be claimed.
Her signal pulses on the screen, a small blue dot moving across the map. The pull hits low. It should be easy to let her go about her day, to maintain the distance she believes she has. But I want to see everything—how she moves through the world when she thinks no one is watching, the sound of her laughter, the way she masks her nerves beneath that perfect composure.
So I go.
The tracker leads me to a sleek cafe near the courthouse, sunlight glinting off glass and steel. Across the street, I watch her through the window—close enough to catch the details, but far enough to remain unseen.
Sunlight catches her hair, turning it into dark silk. She tilts her head when she laughs, a small, unguarded motion that strikes harder than it should. Her hand lifts to tuck a strand behind her ear, fingers brushing the curve of her neck, always graceful even when she isn’t trying to be.
Richard sits opposite her—the DA, mid-fifties, his wedding ring flashing as he gestures. I flick my gaze over him once and dismiss him as a threat.
Laurette holds her own in conversation, leaning in when she speaks, brows drawn. She listens, and her jaw tightens just enough to betray how much she is holding back. She’s beautiful in that way, contained with all that fire kept under control.
She doesn’t look toward the window, doesn’t sense me watching her.
I cross the street and step inside.
“Table for one?” the hostess asks, bright and smiling.
I nod once. “It’s a beautiful day. Next to the window would be perfect.”
She seats me at the table beside them, only a breath of space between us. The necklace rests against her collarbone, catching the light when she moves. She toys with it as she speaks, fingertips tracing the small pendant.
