17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

RICHARD

I’m back in my office, surrounded by stacks of case files that demand my attention. But my mind is a jumbled mess, and I can’t seem to think straight. I’m still rock hard from the encounter with Izel, her moans are replaying in my head like a broken record. I’ve even jacked off, hoping it would help me focus, but my insatiable cock refuses to calm down. It’s like it has a mind of its own, and I’m starting to wonder how it hasn’t detached itself from my body yet.

I run a hand through my hair, forcing my thoughts back to the case in front of me. But every time I try to concentrate, I’m distracted by the memory of Izel beneath me, her body responding to mine with an intensity that’s hard to forget.

Noah enters my office, and I don’t even look up before snapping at him, “What do you want?”

“Someone’s in a great mood. Is it because you haven’t gotten laid in a while?”

I shoot him a glare. “It’s none of your damn business.”

Noah chuckles, undeterred by my annoyance. “Come on, Rick, don’t be such a prude. Everyone needs to get laid once in a while.”

“I have more important things to worry about than my sex life.”

Noah leans against my desk. “Well, maybe you should take a break. It might help you focus on your work better.”

“I don’t need your advice, Noah.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just trying to help. But if you ever change your mind, I know a few places where you can get some action.”

The only action I need is from Izel and rightfully so my thoughts are consumed by her, by the hunger that she’s awakened in me and the memories that I can’t seem to shake.

Just as I’m about to get lost in my thoughts again, the door to my office swings open, and Colton walks in.

“Can’t you all bother knocking?” I snap.

Colton raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We’ve never knocked before. What’s got you so riled up, Rick?”

“Yeah, did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” Noah teases.

I shoot them both a glare. “You might want to watch your mouths. I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, I’ve got some news for you,” Colton begins. “My recent visit to Hollowbrook was... weird.”

Colton’s words pique my interest, “Weird how?”

“Well, I went to Hollowbrook as you requested, to check on Izel’s background. It all seemed so... normal, but something felt off, like a weird vibe in the town.”

I nod, eager to hear more. This could be a clue, something that might help me understand Izel’s past.

“I visited the schools and hospitals, but there was never anything wrong with Izel. In fact, she was named Isla after her great grandmother. It’s only when she turned eighteen that she legally changed her name to Izel.”

“That’s strange. Why would she change her name?”

“I don’t know. But her academic background checked out and based on the medical records Luna was able to charm off the hospital, Isla or Izel never really had a scar,” Colton shrugs.

“But I’ve seen the scar on her stomach. It’s real, and it’s old.”

Noah, who had been listening quietly, pipes up, “Maybe she got it after she turned twenty-five and moved to Virginia?”

I consider the possibility, but something doesn’t add up. “No, the scar is very old. I’ve seen it up close, and it’s not something recent.”

“Even if it is, it is not related to our case in anyway. Maybe it’s time to clear Izel off the suspect list. It’s not fair to keep her here if she’s innocent,” Noah finally speaks up.

I feel a knot forming in my stomach at the mere suggestion of letting Izel out of my house.

“I can’t let her go. Not yet. There’s too much we don’t know,” I deflect.

“We’re just looking out for her. We can continue our investigation without her being a suspect. It might even help us gain her trust.”

“No. Not a word about this to Wilson or anyone else. I’ll handle this on my own.”

Noah nods, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“You mentioned your visit to Hollowbrook was weird. What else did you discover?” I turn to Colton.

“Well, it’s a bit of a long shot, but around seven years ago, there was a killing spree in the town, just like our very own Ghostface Striker. The strange thing is that it abruptly stopped, and the case went cold because they couldn’t find the killer.”

“A killing spree? Why have I never heard about this before?”

“It’s a small town, Rick. You know how it works. They tend to put things under wraps to avoid drawing too much attention.”

“We need more information about this spree in Hollowbrook. Find out everything you can, Colton. The timeline, the victims, the modus operandi, everything.”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

I pull up the case files on the Slasher, Ghostface Striker, and Billy Brooke’s case. It’s been a nagging thought in the back of my mind, and I can’t ignore it any longer. Billy Brooke’s case had been officially closed about a year ago, with him being convicted of the murders. But something had always felt off to me about the whole thing.

I can't shake the thought that the detective on the case might have made a mistake. Billy never quite fit the profile of a cold-blooded killer, at least not to me. He looked like a bit of a sleaze, but to commit the murders with such ease, it just didn’t add up.

Sure, he had confessed to the crimes, but there had always been that lingering doubt in the back of my mind. Something about the whole situation felt wrong, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story than what had been officially concluded.

I start going through the case files, looking for any discrepancies or red flags that might have been overlooked. There has to be something that could shed light on what really happened.

As I dive deeper into the case files of Billy, the Slasher, and Ghostface Striker, a chilling pattern begins to emerge. It’s not just the timing of the murders that catches my attention, it’s the age range of the victims that hold my attention.

Billy had targeted victims in the age range of 18 to 20. The Slasher had targeted the victims in the age range of 21-23. And now, Ghostface Striker’s victims fall within the age range of 24-26.

The pattern is too consistent to be mere happenstance, and it raises red flags all over the place. But as I dive deeper into the files, I’m struck by the differences in the methods used by these killers. Billy had preyed on his victims in dark alleys. The Slasher, on the other hand, had chosen parking lots as the stage for his gruesome acts. And Ghostface Striker invades the homes of his victims, leaving behind a trail of terror.

It’s not just the brutality of the actions that varies; it’s the entire MO. Billy was an opportunistic killer, targeting victims in vulnerable situations. The Slasher seemed to enjoy the public spectacle, hunting in plain sight. And Ghostface Striker was a home invader, striking fear into the hearts of his victims and leaving his sinister message behind.

I start to question if the connection lies beyond the killers’ methods, perhaps hidden in something deeper and more elusive aspect. Is there a hidden motive, a dark undercurrent that links these seemingly disparate cases?

I turn to Noah. “When did the killings start in Hollowbrook?”

Noah furrows his brow, recalling the timeline. “Around six to seven years ago, I think. They stopped about five years ago.”

“Right when Billy started,” I mutter to myself. It’s a chilling coincidence, one that I can’t simply brush aside.

Turning to Colton, I issue a command. “Get all the case files related to the killer in Hollowbrook. We need to know everything about those murders, every detail. There might be a connection we’ve overlooked.”

I sit down, cracking open Billy Brooke’s case file, even though I’d rather be diving into the Hollowbrook killer's case. But that file’s out of my reach right now, so I’ve got no choice but to start with Billy. Fourteen victims, all girls, mostly twenty to twenty-two. As I’m flipping through the file, a bundle of letters falls out. Fourteen in total, each one neatly folded and carefully placed inside. These letters look eerily familiar. I grab one, unfolding it slowly. The handwriting, the style, the way the words are slashed across the page—it’s fucking identical to the letters I’ve been getting.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, pulling out the letter Izel gave me from my side drawer. I hold it up next to the one in the file. There’s no doubt about it; they’re the same. Except for one small difference: the lipstick mark.

The letters I’ve been receiving, they all have that lipstick mark—bright red and unmistakable, like someone kissed the paper just to fuck with me.

“What’s up, Rick?” Noah’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

I slam the letters down on my desk. “It’s been four months since I started receiving these damn letters,” I gesture at the letters. “They are soaked in blood, sent straight to me.”

Colton frowns, leaning in closer. “And you’re only telling us now?”

I slam the file shut. “What the hell was I supposed to say? I thought it was just some psycho fangirl. After I went on TV, made that public statement about the Ghostface Striker, I figured some sick fuck out there decided I was their new obsession.”

“And it’s not?”

“No, turns out,” I say, holding up one of Billy Brooke’s letters, “the detective working on Billy Brooke’s case, he got letters too—one for every damn victim. Fourteen girls, fourteen letters. And me? I’ve already received five.”

“Five letters?” Colton asks. “So, you’re saying—”

“I’m saying there’s another victim,” I cut in, holding up the latest letter—the one Izel handed me. “This is number six. And that means someone else is dead or about to be.”

Colton’s eyes narrow as he processes that. “If that’s the case, we might be dealing with a group of serial killers. All of them could be working in sync, sharing the thrill, the power. They’ve probably got roles—a leader, a planner, maybe even someone who handles the communication. And they’re fucking smart. No way one person could pull off something like this without slipping up.”

Noah nods, his brow furrowing as he thinks it through. “Makes sense. A single killer might leave a pattern we could track, but a group? They could switch up their methods, throw us off their scent. And with multiple hands on deck, they can cover each other’s tracks. One fucks up, the others step in to clean up the mess.”

“Right,” I add. “And if they’re smart enough to stay under the radar, they probably have resources. Access to clean blood, the ability to stay anonymous. They might be tech-savvy, masking their digital footprints, or they could have someone on the inside feeding them info.”

“Kind of like what happened with the Dnepropetrovsk maniacs,” Noah recalls. “They recorded their kills and shared them online. These guys might be doing something similar but on a bigger, more coordinated scale.”

“Exactly,” I say, leaning forward. “Think about it—each kill bolder than the last, a different MO every time. It’s like they’re upping the ante, attempting to one-up each other or prove they’re the top predator.”

Noah stands up, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll send all these letters to forensics, see if we can get anything new. Maybe we’ve been missing something because we weren’t looking at the bigger picture.”

I hand him the stack of letters. “Yeah, get them over there ASAP. If we’re dealing with a group, we need every fucking clue we can get. And Colton, keep digging into any possible connections between the victims. Start with Billy Brooke. If this is a group, there’s got to be something linking them—something we can use to break this thing wide open.”

I lean back in my chair, watching as my team jumps into action. This isn’t just about catching a killer anymore—it’s about dismantling an entire operation. And if these bastards think they can outsmart us, they’re in for a rude fucking awakening. This ends with us, not them.

I step through the door, kicking it shut behind me as I shrug off my jacket. The house is quiet, almost too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you realize just how shitty the day’s been. We’ve been chasing leads on this group of killers. I spent several hours going over profiles, looking at surveillance footage, and barely scratched the surface. Serial killers? One thing. But a group? That’s a whole new kind of headache.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s Ashley.

Ashley, who I should’ve let go weeks ago. Hell, maybe months. I let her stick around longer than anyone else ever does, not because I felt anything, but because it was easier than facing the inevitable. Easier than hurting her. But now Ashley’s done.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was done. Finally. On the way home, I realized how necessary it was. Keeping her around out of convenience wasn’t just unfair to her, it was unfair to me, too. I don’t need the distraction. Not when my head’s already spinning because of someone like Izel, who’s got me so tangled up, I don’t even know which way is up anymore.

I turn on the light, ready to just collapse somewhere, but I freeze. Izel’s sitting in the chair with her legs crossed. She is holding an envelope in her hand.

“What’s with that look?” I ask, tossing my jacket.

She frowns. “What look?”

“The scorned woman look,” I smirk, throwing in the jab. Usually, that kind of shit gets a reaction out of her.

But she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shakes the envelope in her hand, ignoring my comment entirely. “This came in the mail earlier.”

My eyebrows raise, waiting for her to elaborate. “And?”

She stands up and thrusts the envelope into my chest like she’s presenting damning evidence in court. I catch it just in time, staring down at the paper like it’s about to explode in my hands.

“It’s a thank you letter about a donation. Says you donated half a million dollars to an NGO based in Stockholm—an organization for lost and homeless girls.”

Izel watches me, waiting for some kind of reaction. When I don’t give her one, her frown deepens.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Is this because you couldn’t save her? Lyla?”

I shake my head, walking past Izel. “I’m turning in for the night.”

“Don’t give me that!” she shouts from behind.

I stop but don’t turn around. “What?”

“That whole ‘Because I’m a cop, I’m not supposed to feel anything’ BS.”

“It is not BS.”

“Yes, it is,” she snaps, stepping closer. “You think you can just turn off every fucking emotion because it makes it easier for you to deal with it?”

“I don’t have a choice, Izel. Feelings get in the way.”

“No, Richard, they don’t. You make them get in the way because you’re scared of what’ll happen if you actually let yourself fucking feel.”

I let out a bitter laugh, turning away to end this before it spirals. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“You think you’re protecting yourself by shutting down, but all you’re doing is pushing everything and everyone away.”

I ignore her, walking down the hall, hoping she’ll drop it. My feet are heavy as hell, and I just want to shut out everything for the night. “I’m done with this conversation,” I mutter under my breath.

But Izel’s right behind me. “You’re not done. Stop pretending you’re made of stone!”

I spin around, glaring at her. “What do you want from me, Izel? You want me to break down? To cry about all the people I couldn’t save, all the fucking mistakes I made? What good is that going to do, huh?”

“You’re allowed to feel, Richard,” she says stepping closer to me. “And you’re allowed to act on those feel—”

I crash my lips against hers. She gasps against my mouth but doesn’t push me away. Instead, her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer. My body presses against hers, and her hands slide up to my neck.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath. I rest my forehead against hers. “Is this what you wanted?”

“No,” she whispers. “But it’s what you needed.”

“If we’re going through with this,” I murmur against her lips, feeling my breath coming out heavy, “I need alcohol.”

She pulls back, just enough to give me that sly smile she does when she knows she’s got me right where she wants. “You sure about that?”

I nod, loosening my grip on her shoulders. Her smile widens as she steps away, leaving me standing there. I watch her head toward the kitchen, her hips swaying like she knows I’m watching. I let out a breath, trying to clear my head, but fuck, it's not working.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Izel says through a burst of laughter, clearly still riding the high from the stupid story I just told her.

I laugh along, but yeah, it was embarrassing as hell. “Yeah, well, sleeping with my English teacher at seventeen wasn’t my brightest moment. In my defense I was horny and she was hot. Dad found out and nearly killed me. Took me to a damn counselor to get ‘straightened out.’”

“What about your parents now?”

I pause for a second, not expecting her to ask, but I shrug. “Well, my father died when I was twenty. Heart attack. And Mom? She’s... off somewhere living her best life on some tropical island. They’re basically out of the picture.”

She nods, chewing her bottom lip like she’s thinking about something. “Yeah... that is something I can relate with.”

I see her close up just a little, like she’s retreating into herself. I’ve read her file. I know her past, or at least the parts of it. Her mother disappeared, got sucked into some fucked-up cult, leaving Izel to her grandparents. And her father? Will... he hadn’t been any better. He abandoned her without a second thought. Her past is one of the reasons she’s here.

“Fuck... I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she mutters, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve as if to distract herself. “It is what it is.”

It’s a brush-off. I can tell by the way her shoulders hunch slightly, the way her jaw tightens like she’s trying not to show how much it hurts. She’s used to this—used to being left behind, used to dealing with shit on her own. The worst part? She’s so fucking good at pretending it doesn’t bother her, like it’s just another fact of life she’s learned to accept.

She shifts in her seat, pulling her knees up and tucking them under her chin. I hate that I know more about her than she probably realizes, and I hate that I can’t fix any of it.

“So, what about you?”

“What about me?”

I push through, not willing to let the conversation die in this dark place. “Any embarrassing stories I should know about?”

Her lips twitch, and she finally lets out a soft laugh. It’s small, barely there, but it’s something. I watch her untuck her legs, and I know it’s a sign she’s starting to relax.

“I’ve done things,” she says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

“Yeah?” I press. “Care to share?”

“Nothing you’d care about.”

“Try me.”

“Well,” she says, dragging out the word like she’s deciding how much of herself to give away. I can see that mischievous glint in her eye, the one that always makes me curious about what's really going on in her head. She leans back against the couch, playing with the empty glass in her hand, spinning it slowly. “There was this one time, I was at the mall with my cousin...”

I raise an eyebrow, settling in. This is going to be good.

“So, we were just wandering around, window shopping mostly. That’s when we walk past this little jewelry store, one of those fancy ones where everything’s sparkling in the windows, and I saw this necklace. It wasn’t even the most expensive thing in there, just this delicate little silver chain with a tiny heart pendant. And I wanted it. I don’t know why, but it was like this weird, impulsive thing. I just had to have it.”

Izel's fingers trace the rim of the glass as she talks, like she’s visualizing the necklace. “So, we walk in, right? My cousin’s busy checking out some earrings, and I’m just browsing. The store was pretty empty, and the salespeople weren’t really paying attention to me. They were all focused on this older lady who was asking a million questions about diamond rings or something. I should’ve just walked out then, but no. I decide it’s a brilliant idea to pocket the necklace.”

“You didn’t think they’d notice?” I laugh.

“Honestly? I don’t know what the hell I was thinking,” she admits, grinning. “I figured, it’s a small piece of jewelry, right? They’ve got thousands of those little things lying around. Who’s going to miss one tiny necklace?”

“You do realize you’re sitting here admitting to a felony in front of a cop, right? Doesn’t matter if you were eight when this little adventure of yours went down.”

She snorts, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “Please. You’re not going to cuff me over some dumb necklace I failed to swipe a million years ago. Besides, I wasn’t eight. I was eighteen.”

I freeze, mid-sip of my drink. “You were eighteen? And you didn’t know shoplifting was a crime?”

She laughs, tipping her head back. “Nope. Not a fucking clue. What can I say? I wasn’t exactly valedictorian material.”

I shake my head, amused but also... confused. Who the hell reaches adulthood and doesn’t know stealing’s a crime? The more she talks, the more little red flags start popping up. But the way she’s grinning at me now, like she’s daring me to judge her... I ignore it. Maybe she was just that reckless back then. Or maybe she’s fucking with me. Could be either one with her.

She sets her glass down, crossing her legs and shooting me that playful look again. “Your turn.”

“Huh?” I blink, catching up slowly. “My turn for what?”

“Your turn to share another interesting story, genius,” she teases.

I let out a breath and lean my head back, thinking. “Okay… there was this one time—years ago, when I was a rookie—I arrested this guy for stealing a garden gnome. And I mean, he didn’t just take it. He dressed it up, drove it around in his truck for weeks, taking pictures of it at different locations like it was on vacation. This guy even made a whole scrapbook of the gnome’s 'adventures.'”

Izel snorts, a genuine laugh escaping her. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish,” I chuckle. “The dude was so serious about it too. I remember asking him why he did it, and he just looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Gnomes need love too, Officer.’”

She laughs, and the sound feels good, lighter than the usual tension between us. She reaches for the bottle, pouring another shot and pushing it into my hand. “Alright, that deserves a drink.”

I grin, throwing the shot back, barely feeling the burn. “That was my life back then. Chasing down petty criminals with more stupid than sense.”

“You must’ve loved that. Catching people at their dumbest.”

“Made the days go by faster,” I admit, swirling the glass in my hand. “But that was before... before I started getting involved in real shit.”

“You miss those days?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take another shot. It’s easier to down the liquor than think too hard about it.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Because they don’t fucking matter. None of it does.” I grab the bottle, pouring another shot, but this time I don’t drink it right away. “You leave the last crime at the scene, move on to the next one. That’s how it works.”

“Or,” she says, “because you’re not really moving on?”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Maybe it’s not about leaving the last crime at the scene. Maybe it’s about you wanting to find a better criminal each time. Or should I say... a badder one?”

Izel watches me for a second, probably wondering if I’ll push back. When I don’t, she leans in again. “You think you’re moving on. But somewhere, deep down, you’re not. It’s like… every time you catch a worse criminal, someone more fucked up than the last, you think you’re making up for every life you couldn’t save. Even the ones who… maybe didn’t deserve to be saved. You’re not chasing justice. You’re chasing redemption.”

I don’t want to admit it, but something about what she’s saying feels too close to the truth. Too close to the shit I don’t talk about. The shit I try not to think about.

“But the truth is that no matter how many criminals you put away, how many lives you try to save, it’s never going to be enough. You’re always going to feel that fucking hole inside you, because you can’t bring back the ones you lost. And you can’t control the ones who didn’t make it. Not even the ones who didn’t deserve to live.”

Izel doesn’t wait for me to respond. She knows me better than that by now. Her fingers brush the front of my shirt, and before I can stop her, she starts undoing the buttons one by one. My pulse quickens, but I don’t move. It’s like she’s in control of this moment, and for once, I don’t fight it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers like she’s trying to convince me, and maybe herself, too.

Her fingers work their way down, her touch is light, almost soothing. The fabric of my shirt opens, baring the scars underneath. She traces one with her fingertip, the faint line of an old gunshot wound. I flinch, not from the pain—there’s none left—but from the memories that rush back.

“You tried,” she continues. “That’s more than anyone else did.”

Her touch isn’t demanding, it’s... gentle. And it’s been so damn long since anyone touched me like that.

Her fingers move lower, tracing the scar that runs along my side. I bite the inside of my cheek, focusing on her touch and not the memories that come with it.

“I started learning Swedish.” That pulls her eyes away from my scar, and they meet mine.

Her hands pause for a second, but she doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing the line of the scar, waiting for me to explain.

“I did it because…” I take a deep breath. “I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to open up to me. Give me her name. Her address. Something, anything, so I could send her back to Sweden.”

Izel’s touch shifts, softer now, more... careful. Her lips are suddenly close to mine, so close I can feel her breath mix with mine, the warmth of it pulling me in. “Kiss me,” she whispers, and it’s not a request—it’s a dare.

My mouth twitches with a smile and I lean in just enough that my lips almost graze hers, but I stop. “ Om jag ror vid dina l?ppar, kommer jag inte att sluta. Jag kommer att knulla dig p? s?tt som skulle s?tta mig i f?ngelse, men tro mig, du kommer att vara den som avtj?nar livstidsstraff .”

Her lips hover over mine and her eyes are still half-closed. “What did you just say?”

“Good night, Miss Montclair.”

Izel pulls back, her hand slipping away from my chest as she straightens up. The shift in her is subtle, but it’s there.

“Sweet dreams, Agent Reynolds.”

She stands, smoothing her dress with a quick motion, the intimacy of the moment shattered. I can’t decide if I regret what I said or if I’m glad I pushed her away. There’s a part of me that wants to pull her back, to take that kiss and everything that comes with it. But there’s another part of me that knows the second I do, there’s no going back.

I step out of my room, rubbing the back of my neck, and pause when I see Izel. She’s sitting on the couch sipping coffee like it’s any other morning, like we didn’t almost rip each other apart last night. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her focus on the cup in her hand. That is, until she watches me head for the cabinet.

I open it and pull out the cuffs. Her eyes flicker to the cuffs, then to me, and without a word, she leans forward, putting her hands out.

I crouch in front of her, slowly locking the cuffs around her wrists. “I need to apologize.”

She arches a brow, looking down at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “For rejecting me in Swedish? Yeah, no, I think I’m good.”

I smirk, deliberately brushing my fingers on her skin. If only she knew . “No,” I say, shaking my head as I finish securing the cuffs. “But for the fact that you’re under my protection, and I shouldn’t have gotten drunk last night like it was some frat party.”

She snorts, pulling her wrists slightly against the cuffs, testing them. “Does that mean if I report you, it’ll get you in cuffs?”

I click my tongue, meeting her gaze. “Did you do that on purpose? Get me drunk just to have me cuffed?”

“No,” she says, shrugging, “but it doesn’t hurt to be opportunistic.”

“Sad news for you,” I say, leaning in, my face inches from hers. “I’ll just walk away with a suspension.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Well, that’s no fun.”

“But hey,” I add, “I’ll let you cuff me, just so I can show you what real submission looks like.”

She blinks, processing that, but I catch the hint of doubt in her eyes before she responds. “After you rejected me last night? In Swedish? I kinda doubt you’d let me.”

I chuckle softly, my thumb brushing over her wrist. I feel her pulse, the warmth of her skin, and it’s addictive. “And how would you even know I was speaking Swedish?”

She leans back into the couch and her head tilts slightly. “Because you told me you learned Swedish, remember?”

I move in closer, my lips brushing the side of her neck as I slowly pull the cuffs from her wrists. Her breath hitches, and I can hear her heartbeat pick up. I lean in, my lips hovering near her ear, and whisper, “ Pensi che ti abbia respinto? Non, carino. Se sapessi cosa sto trattenendo, correresti. E voglio che tu lo faccia. Dio, voglio spezzarti e spezzarmi per te. Ogni secondo che sono vicino a te, sto combattendo ogni regola che ho già infranto nella mia testa .”

Her entire body tenses for a second, just enough for me to notice. I pull back slightly to look into her eyes, studying the way her chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. “Did that feel like rejection?”

She swallows hard, stammering for a second, clearly thrown off. “N-No...”

I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, letting my lips linger just a second too long. “Good,” I murmur, pulling away. “Have a good day.”

Izel sits there for a second, then looks down at the cuffs still in her hand. She lifts them. “So... you gonna put these back on or what?”

I grin, walking toward the door, feeling her eyes on me the entire time. I stop at the door, unlocking it and turning back to her with a smug smile. “I hope to see you waiting for me when I get back,” I say, locking eyes with her. “And I expect those cuffs to be ready.” I can already tell by the look on her face—she’s going to do it.

I start to walk out, but just as my hand hits the door handle, I pause and glance back over my shoulder. “Oh, and for the record, I speak 47 different languages.” I say it casually, knowing it’ll get under her skin.

Without missing a beat, she grabs a cushion off the couch and chucks it at me. “For the record, I don’t give a fuck.”

I laugh, catching the cushion before it smacks me in the face, tossing it back onto the couch. “Yeah, you do.” I wink and step out, closing the door behind me with a grin plastered on my face.