2. Dark Horse （Micah）

2

DARK HORSE (MICAH)

W hen the hell did I wind up being coffee boy?

When I first signed on with Redhaven PD, Chief Bowden showed up every morning with coffee for everyone—jolly, welcoming, always swinging into the backroom belly-first with a cupholder in one hand. He'd grin like a Cheshire cat as he handed out everyone's orders on his way to his little corner office.

Black coffee with just a dab of sugar for Captain Grant Faircross.

A half-milk, half-coffee, all sugar diabetic monstrosity for Lieutenant Lucas Graves.

A sweetened vanilla latte for our dispatch officer, Mallory.

Black with Irish crème, no sugar, for me.

Cinnamon chocolate cappuccino for Officer Henri Fontenot, unless he was just on his way out as the chief came in. Then he'd end his nightly on-call shift with a steaming cup of chamomile tea on the chief's dime.

How do I know all this?

Because I'm the poor bastard filling those orders now.

All because our jolly, bumbling chief has turned sullen and withdrawn lately—when he bothers to show up at the office at all.

If we're going by rank or tenure, this should be Henri's job.

I've been here longer and I outrank him by a smidge as a junior sergeant, while he doesn't have any real title besides officer. Even so, that smooth-talking Cajun already wheedled his way out of coffee duty by reminding everyone he got the short end of the stick with night shift in the most boring town in North Carolina.

Nothing usually happens after dark besides the odd coyote running through town or summer kids stirring up misdemeanors.

That's why I'm walking out of Red Grounds and into the morning light, carrying a cardboard cupholder with five steaming paper cups printed with the café's logo.

I'm the last one in to work. I always am.

Technically, it's a medical exemption, though there's nothing in my medical history that requires coming in later in the morning. The excuse lets me use my morning hours as I see fit. Walking my dog. Hiking the woods.

Making a few phone calls.

And what I learned during this morning's phone calls left me pretty fucking pissed.

That brick of cocaine we recovered when we arrested Culver Jacobin for the attempted murder of Delilah Graves—formerly Delilah Clarendon before she went and married Lucas—was a key piece of evidence in an ongoing case.

We'd followed protocol. Turned it over to the FBI to poke at with a few other alphabet agencies. Forensic analysis showed this particular cocaine sample was a dead match for the drugs plaguing the east coast over the last decade, far north of Redhaven.

Proof that the drug epidemic that's been escalating every year—and taking more lives along with it, stealing folks from their families, stealing from me —can be traced right back to this nowhere town.

So close.

I was so fucking close .

Yet somehow, every last lab sample wound up destroyed in a freak accident.

Coincidentally, right before the forensic analysts verified all their notes.

Then the rest of the entire brick of coke disappeared from evidence lockup.

Clerical error, my ass.

This was a classic cover-up.

A lot like how Culver Jacobin's and Ulysses Arrendell's ‘suicides' in prison were a cover-up, too. The wealthiest family in Redhaven—hell, in all of North Carolina—has a vested interest in burying investigations. They also have all the money in the world to make damn sure it happens.

They've also set me right back to square one, putting me in one hell of a mood.

My blood simmers so thick I feel the bright midmorning light turning darker in my vision as I head up the sidewalk toward the station.

My vision hazes and halos around the edges.

I've always been sensitive to light. If I didn't need my nights to myself, I'd trade with Henri for evening on-calls in a heartbeat. The corrective contact lenses I wear don't really help, scattering the sun into starbursts.

So I almost miss it when it happens.

The girl, staggering through the loose streams of morning shoppers out running their errands. She starts fumbling with her purse, wearing a desperate look.

Her skin looks like white ash against her fiery-red hair, her eyes wide, her face an unnatural red that screams panic.

It's her motion that grabs my attention.

Then the dull thump of her purse and leather portfolio hitting cobblestone.

Right before she goes tumbling down, collapsing in a spill of vivid scarlet and delicate limbs.

"Shit," I mutter.

The people milling around her gasp, pulling back with a collective cry.

I don't even realize I'm moving until I'm halfway across the square.

Dropping the coffee with a messy splash, I sprint to the girl's side and fling myself down so hard I bruise my shins.

She's not quite unconscious, not yet.

Her long lashes flutter against her red cheeks, offering glimpses of hazy blue eyes.

A familiar face?

Yeah, she works at the furniture shop down the street. Can't remember her name, but that doesn't matter right now.

I cup her face gently in both hands, stopping her from turning it from side to side in case she has head trauma.

"Miss," I growl firmly, looking down into her eyes. "Focus on me. I'm a police officer. Can you tell me if you hit your head?"

Her lips part, but nothing comes out besides a wheeze. Her chest rises and falls, swift and shallow.

No blood, though.

No contusions that I can see at a glance.

Then I freeze.

She's trying to reach her purse, I realize, her eyes rolling toward it helplessly while her throat clicks with fear.

That's when what's happening really sinks in.

She can't breathe.

Probably an allergic reaction or an asthma attack.

I let go of her head and dive for her purse, ripping it open and spilling the contents. Notepad, phone, pens, receipts, lipstick, comb. Come on, come on, where's the goddamn EpiPen or inhaler—

Aha.

An inhaler goes clattering across the stone.

I snatch it up, pull the cap off, and hold it to her lips, fitting it carefully so her soft red mouth wraps around it.

One pump.

Give her a second.

Then another.

My brain whips back to first responder training. Okay, I need to keep calm for her own sake through the adrenaline spike.

My focus narrows to her, and only her.

Tracking her breathing.

The jitter of her eyes.

Watching as she sucks in a deeper breath, then another, her eyes widening, her head tossed back.

Fuck me, I don't think this inhaler is working fast enough.

I also don't have time to wait around for dispatch to send EMTs, even if there's one on the way by now from someone calling it in.

Not when she's struggling and turning redder by the second.

There's no hesitation.

"Sorry, lady," I whisper, right before I bend over and fit my mouth to hers.

She goes stiff.

Her hands come up, clutching at my shoulders almost comically.

I know what this looks like.

What it feels like.

But when I gently pinch her nostrils shut, she gets the message.

I only leave a single airway for us to manage.

She relaxes slowly as I exhale into her mouth.

Normally, we use CPR for someone who's unconscious, but right now, what she needs is to get her breathing under control until the inhaler works.

Breathe with me , woman, I'm beaming into her with my lips.

Fucking breathe!

One breath at a time, I take control of her.

In, out. In, out!

Our mouths fuse together so perfectly there's not a single molecule of air lost between us, the heat and friction building with each wet slide like a kiss.

Her lips taste like citrus, sweet and tart.

With every passing second, we slowly taste the same.

Every time I exhale, I force another breath down her throat. We separate for just a minute, our lips parting with a damp sound before I seal them together again.

Over and over, taking my time, razor-focused on her alone.

Slowly, her rhythm matches mine.

Her rapid panicked breathing softens until it turns slow and steady, each breath more measured and controlled than the last.

It's almost weirdly intimate.

The people around us watching silently, the sunlit morning square, all of it falls away.

There's only that rhythm.

That heartbeat.

That push and pull.

Here, there's only her, while her eyes slip shut and she goes slack like she's surrendering to me.

When the fear and tension go out of her, I feel it.

With the next breath, I touch two fingers to her throat, feeling her pulse through her artery. It flutters under my fingers, a little start.

Thankfully, it's acceptable. No longer the panic-rush that was beating frantically against her pale, slender throat.

Now it feels safe to let her go.

So I do, releasing her delicate nose. As I draw back this time, I don't go in for another breath.

My lips hover over hers as I tell her, "Good girl. You're all right. Just keep breathing, nice and steady."

I straighten, slipping an arm under her, coaxing her up until she's resting in the crook of my arm, half-draped across my lap. Her breath turns a little shaky for a second, then evens out.

She swallows hard before letting out a slow, controlled exhale that looks almost practiced.

Like she's dealt with this a lot, but she just wasn't ready for this kind of chaos.

I still need to call dispatch and make sure the EMTs are coming. I'm just not sure if it's safe to let her go yet.

I force myself to give her a once-over, taking in her flush, her paleness—some of which I realize now is just her natural color.

She's so warm in the crook of my arm.

So small, so breakable.

Her bones feel finer than a bird's wings against her wrist, and in the exposed dip of her collarbone just visible past the collar of her soft-pink suit coat and button-up shirt. Her skin shines like moonlight, even in the morning, spattered with cinnamon-colored freckles across her face and throat.

She's got the kind of round, high cheekbones that make her jawline look like a porcelain sculpture. Her hair is a wild cloud, deep red like embers, long and pouring down her shoulders over my supporting arm.

And those eyes—fuck.

They're the darkest blue I've ever seen. Dangerously close to conjuring up very unprofessional thoughts.

Especially as she looks up while I clear my throat.

"Are you with me now? Are you feeling all right?" I ask.

Her lips part, but she doesn't answer.

Her mouth is cherry red from my CPR kisses, making the bright cobalt-blue of her eyes stand out so much more sharply. They're wet and glimmering, her curling lashes beading with tears.

There's something brutally innocent in her gaze.

I'm fucking arrested. Lost for words.

For what I was trying to do.

For what I should even be thinking in this situation.

Think, Micah. Find your brain and quit fucking staring.

I should be thinking about her safety and nothing else. She's a flushed, disheveled mess and I don't even know her name.

Only, right now, I'm gutted.

An unhinged thought cuts me open.

I'm staring at the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.