Chapter Thirteen Abby

Ishould've probably told someone about what I was doing–it quickly occurred to me that it might be dangerous.

But fuck it. I had a lead.

The night air was a sharp slap against my skin as I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white and my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break free. Nathan's car—a sleek, predatory thing that seemed so much like an extension of him—was just ahead, his tail lights two red eyes in the dark. I kept my distance, the memory of his touch still burning on my skin, mingling with the adrenaline that coursed through my veins.

He might be part of the Triads, I reminded myself. That thought should have cooled the heat inside me, but all it did was twist the knot of desire and fear tighter. I had crossed a line tonight, letting passion blind me to the man he could be—no, the man he likely was.

Fuck. I had been so foolish.

Why? Because I wanted to get laid?

"Jesus Christ, Abby," I told myself, my voice shaking.

He turned into a parking spot outside an alley, the walls of the building almost enough to cover the shape of his car. I couldn't just pull in there if I didn't want him to see me so I drove past him, my gaze flickering to his car as I prayed he hadn't noticed me. A block down, I parked my car and slipped out, my heart now a relentless drum in my chest. This…this was Chinatown, where I worked. Where he kept his flower shop.

A Triad front.

Of course.

I couldn't shake the feeling of his hands on my skin, of the way he looked at me, of his tongue on my pussy—like I was the only thing in the world. I didn't sleep with men in clubs.

Not until him anyway.

But now here I was, sneaking after him, suspecting him of things that made my stomach churn. The art history grad was gone; the trained FBI agent moved stealthily in her place.

I stayed close to the buildings, the cool brick scraping against my jacket as I edged closer, the sounds of the city night a backdrop to my racing thoughts. I knew this was crazy, but I needed to know.

I had to.

My dad's voice echoed in my head, reminding me to stay alert, to be ready for anything. Those childhood lessons were etched deep in my bones, a gift from a father who knew the darkness of the world all too well.

The alley loomed before me, a narrow mouth about to swallow me whole. I hesitated, the weight of my choices heavy on my shoulders. Forward, my mind whispered, and I obeyed, stepping into the abyss that might reveal the true face of the man who I had inside me less than an hour ago.

I moved with purpose, every sense heightened. My fingers closed around my phone, the cold device now a lifeline as I pressed record. I knew, at first, it would only be able to pick up wind.

But if I had evidence, I could watch it when I'd gotten out of the alleyway. The alleyway itself was a tunnel of darkness, a shroud where secrets hid in plain sight. It was a place that demanded silence and offered no forgiveness to those who stumbled into its depths uninvited.

I approached a half open back door and pressed my body against the wall when the murmur of voices ahead snapped me to attention. Mandarin, rapid and sharp, sliced through the quiet night. I didn't dare move closer, afraid even the slightest sound would betray my presence. Instead, I strained my ears, trying to decipher everything they were saying.

I spoke good Mandarin, but they were mumbling, talking quickly, behind concrete walls.

This was hard.

"Talk!" An order, laced with threat, vibrated against the walls. "Do you work for…"

It was a name, but I couldn't hear it.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," the other man replied, clearly afraid.

Then there was the sound of something–it sounded like flesh striking fresh–and someone pleading.

Mandarin had never been harder.

I swallowed hard, my own pulse thundering louder than the desperate cries. Words flew back and forth, exchanges of information or perhaps lies born of terror—I tried to capture them all, mental notes etched with the precision of a blade in my memory, but fuck, I was missing some important information.

"Enough," a voice commanded, a voice I thought I recognized.

But…it couldn't be. It couldn't be, I told myself.

Footsteps echoed, retreating. I held my breath, willing myself to become invisible. A part of me wanted to chase the fading sounds, another part screamed to run away. But I stayed rooted, caught in the gravity of my mission, of the truth that lay just beyond the veil of darkness.

I bit my lip, a bitter taste spreading across my tongue as I crouched in the darkness. The man from earlier that night, the one who made my world spin and my heart race, was a Triad member. Nathan wouldn't be here if he wasn't a member of the Triad.

That meant he was part of the Golden Serpents–the most feared gang in San Francisco. And here I was, hugging an alley wall, trying to convince myself that the warmth I felt beneath his touch wasn't real. It couldn't be—not when it could've been the last sensation I ever felt.

"Stupid," I muttered under my breath, angry tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. How had I let myself get swept up by someone so dangerous? How had I let it feel so good?

I hated to admit it to myself, but I should have listened to Matthews.

The door near me swung open, spilling light onto the pavement. Two men I hadn't seen before emerged, their silhouettes stark against the harsh brightness. I fumbled with my phone, the record button now a lifeline as I shifted to the camera. My hands shook as I took a video, then stopped to snap a picture and then another, capturing their retreat—evidence, I hoped.

As they walked away, I eyed the empty space where they had been, half-expecting Nathan to materialize out of thin air. But he didn't. Doubt crept in, weaving through my thoughts. What if Nathan wasn't part of this violent bullshit?

What if he was a victim in all of this?

But there was no way. He had been called to this.

How could he be the victim? Unless, of course, it was a trap. Men on the periphery of crime often fell victim to traps…

I pocketed my phone and hugged my arms close, feeling the chill of the night cling to my skin. Nathan's absence gnawed at me, a puzzle I couldn't solve, a story I couldn't read. In the quiet that followed, I realized the true depth of the waters I'd waded into—and how desperately I needed to keep swimming.

I hesitated, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and fear. Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, to run and never stop until I reached the safety of my apartment, until this night was nothing more than a bad dream. But Nate...he could be hurt, or worse.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, summoning every bit of courage I'd inherited from my dad, the Boston cop who'd faced down his own share of monsters. I had become an FBI agent for a reason, and I was going to make him proud.

I crept forward, my footsteps silent against the grimy concrete, my heart pounding out a frantic rhythm.

The alley stretched before me like the throat of some beast, dark and suffocating. I knew I just had to go in–but I took my time, past a dumpster that reeked of decay, past shadows that seemed to watch and shift with unseen eyes.

The further I went, the louder the silence became, until it roared in my ears.

And that was when I saw him.

Not beaten or bloodied as I had feared, but standing over a tarp-covered shape, his hands crimson, his expression unreadable.

But the shape wasn't all covered.

I held back a scream as I looked at the spectacle in front of me.

Nathan was methodically dismembering a body, a task he performed with the same precision and care he might have used to tend to his flowers, his skin glistening with sweat.

This had been crazy.

I had to run.

I had to get away…before this man saw me and killed me.