The silence stretches between us, filled only by the drumming of rain and distant thunder. Finally, I nod. "Okay. I accept. Thank you."
Relief crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. "Got anything else here? Belongings?"
I shake my head. “I, um…I have a backpack.” I’m not even sure what exactly it contains. My sketchbook, workout clothes, and wallet with a little cash.
"Can you walk?"
I push myself to my feet, swaying slightly. Hawk's hand shoots out, steadying me without actually touching me—creating a barrier I can lean against if needed. The consideration in that gesture, small as it is, flutters my heart beneath my sore ribcage.
"I'm fine,” I insist, though my body screams otherwise.
He strips off his rain jacket and holds it out. "It's still pouring. Put this on."
The jacket swallows me, heavy with his scent—manly and spicy like citrus and cedar.
"Just hold onto me. I won't let you fall." He holds me gently, his fingers seeming to deftly avoid my bruises as he leads me down the stairs, through the mansion's grand foyer, and outside where the rain has lessened to a steady drizzle.
"What's your name?"
"Aria," I say, the first truth I've offered freely.
"Aria," he repeats, as if testing the sound of it. "Ever been on the back of a Harley before, Aria?"
I shake my head, warily. It’s then that I notice a massive motorcycle beneath the portico.
The thought of riding behind this huge, tatted man as he commands his gleaming beast of steel and chrome through Wraithport fires off sparks of eager anticipation within me.
My excitement is short-lived, however, drowned out by utter terror when a police cruiser pulls up at the entrance to the property, its blue and red lights flashing.
My entire body goes rigid with fear. I can barely breathe. I duck behind Hawk, my fingers digging into his sides involuntarily as panic ripples through me in waves.
“You called the police?!” My voice is frantic against his back. "You called the police on me?"
Chapter 3
Hawk
The pain and betrayal in her voice nearly guts me.
“Shhh. Hey, relax.” I manage to pry Aria’s death grip from my cut. “I didn’t call anyone,” I assure her. “Stay here.”
The cruiser idles at the entrance to the property, its searchlight sweeping across the fence as I stride down the driveway. All kinds of questions are rattling around in my brain. I don’t like pigs either, but her reaction was extreme. Is she wanted for a crime? Somehow I can’t imagine the weary, battered young woman who fainted in my arms a short while ago being a hardened criminal.
When I reach the cruiser, the passenger window rolls down a crack—just enough for me to see the profile inside.
Detective Mark Russo. Of all the fucking cops in this city, it had to be fucking Russo.
I don’t bother to hide the sneer as I plant my boots in the mud and lean in.
"Reynolds," he says, mouth twisting into what's probably supposed to be a smile. He keeps the right side of his face angled toward me, the left side obscured in shadow. "What brings you out here on a night like this?"
I shrug. “With Halloween around the corner and kids out making mischief, just checking there ain’t broken windows or spray paint or any shit like that.”
Russo studies me through the narrow opening, searching for a tell. At fifty-something, he's got that cop-cockiness of someone who's been getting away with dirty shit for decades.
"I'm looking for a missing person. Young woman, dark hair." He maintains that fake-ass smile as he holds up his phone, showing me a picture through the rain-streaked glass. It's her—Aria.
My expression gives away nothing, but inside my head, puzzle pieces are floating around begging to be connected.
