Dantë nods in agreement and scans Poppy, a silent pain in his carmine eyes. “We were supposed to be done with this shit when we got out.”
“Seems Leviathan has roots everywhere,” V utters, her gaze distanced. “If only we’d stayed long enough to know who saved us instead of running from them, too.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
If any of us had connections with the group who demolished Leviathan’s limb in Sleepy Hollow, we’d have called in the cavalry by now.
“Maybe this is divine punishment for the shit we did.” Dantë sighs, leaning back and resting his head against the chair. “To children in collars and chains. To men and women drugged out of their minds and foaming at the mouth. We did nothing to stop any of it. Wethrivedin it.”
“We were young, scared, and vastly outnumbered,Petit Fantôme,” V says softly. “If we hadn’t donned those personalities and garnered the kind of reputation we did, we would’ve ended up collared, chained, and foaming at the mouth, too.”
A tear trails down Dantë’s porcelain cheek. “Do you think Margot is still alive?”
A stilted silence weighs down on us, casting our memories in blood and shadow.
“For her sake,” I murmur as Poppy’s steady heartbeat keeps me grounded, its music as powerful as Mozart, “I pray not.”
SECRETS
Brontë
Poppy has not yet woken. Instead of remaining a useless heap of anxiety at her bedside, I’m covering a graveyard shift for a sick colleague.
Lightning whips the black clouds above as I pull into the lot and park beside the only other vehicle here: Quinn’s old moss-green Wrangler. I haven’t given her a single thought since Poppy convinced me to talk to her rather than strangle her.
Locking my car, I flash my penlight through the Jeep’s windows. The leather interior is perfectly clean and devoid of any damning evidence. I stroll across the pavement at a stiff pace, swiping my badge at the entrance and weaving through the empty office space. Downstairs, I skip the morgue and head straight for the lab.
I hear them before I see them.
Sighs and moans, heady and breathless, reach my ears. I halt at the lab window and duck at the sight of two half-dressed, writhing bodies. Peering over the counter, I squint into the dark room and decipher the silhouettes.
There, bent over a table of beakers and test tubes, is Quinn. Behind her, his broad frame flexing beneath his business attire as he grips her curls and rails her with mighty strokes, is none other than Detective Shane fucking Scull.
What in the actual fuck?Is he who she’s been seeing this entire time?
Having too many theories and not enough brain cells to process them all while the pair fuck like rabbits in heat, I slip back to the morgue and wait it out. A grueling hour later, their footsteps and voices grow near.
Fisting the Kimber in my jacket pocket, I step casually into the hall and act surprised when we spot each other. “Oh!Bonjour, mes amis.To what do I owe the…pleasure?”
Scull subtly tucks his pistol back into its holster as Quinn plants a hand on her chest, gasping, “You scared the shit out of us.”
I scan the floor. “No, I didn’t.”
Quinn huffs a nervous laugh as Scull crosses his arms. “What are you doing here, Bourbon?”
“Working. What areyoudoing here,mon ami?”
“Working.”
“Mm. So late?”
“Sin never sleeps.”
I stifle my urge to snort. “Touché.”
A moment creeps by as Quinn’s freckled face reddens by the millisecond.
“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” Scull remarks, glancing at Quinn. “Appreciate your help with that case, Wildes. I’ll be on my way.”
