The townhouse was still and silent when she slipped inside, the air cool against her overheated skin. She dropped her keys into the dish by the door and peeled off her damp shirt as she walked toward the bathroom, leaving it in a crumpled heap in the hall — something she never did.
The shower knobs turned with a squeak, and she twisted the hot tap all the way until steam filled the glass stall. She stepped under the spray before it was ready, the water still edging toward scalding, and pressed her palms flat to the cool tile as the heat climbed.
It should have burned the thoughts away. That was the point — to drown her senses in heat, make it impossible to think about anything else. But the water cascading over her skin only made her remember Isabel’s hands — one at her throat, the other between her thighs — and the way Victoria had let her head fall back and given herself over entirely.
Her breathing hitched, uneven in the steam.
She told herself to stop. To focus. But her hands betrayed her, sliding down over her stomach, lower, until her fingertips found the heat pooling there. The smallest touch sent a shiver through her.
She closed her eyes and let herself remember.
Isabel’s palm warm against her skin.
The scrape of her nails.
The precise pressure on her throat that made her whole body light up.
Victoria’s hips shifted under the spray, her breath catching as she circled her fingers exactly where she wanted them. Shebit down on a groan, the sound swallowed by the hiss of water. Her forehead rested against the tile now, her other hand braced above her head.
She tried to keep her movements clinical, efficient — just a release, nothing more — but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Isabel was there in every detail—the taste of her mouth, the way she’d looked at Victoria as if she could see every hidden part of her and still wanted more.
Her pace quickened, the tension curling tighter and tighter until it snapped. The orgasm shuddered through her in waves, stealing her breath, making her knees tremble.
When it was over, she stayed there, hunched under the spray, her hand still between her thighs. She told herself it was the same. It was enough. It didn’t have to be anything more.
But the truth was immediate and unrelenting.
It wasn’t the same.
It wasn’t even close.
And admitting that — even silently — was unbearable.
She straightened, drew in a long, steadying breath, and reached for the cold tap. The shift was instant and brutal, the water slamming into her skin with a shock that stole the air from her lungs. She welcomed it, let it chase the heat from her body, let it numb the places Isabel’s touch had burned into her.
When she stepped out, water still dripping from her hair, she wrapped the towel tightly around herself and told her reflection in the mirror that she was fine. That the calm, cool, and collected captain was back.
But her hands were still trembling. And she knew her control was paper-thin.
The precinct smelled of burnt coffee and floor polish — a scent Victoria usually found grounding. This morning, it was areminder of where she belonged, of the place where her control was absolute.
She sat at her desk, the blinds angled to keep the rising sun from glaring across her computer screen. Her coffee was hot, dark, and strong, the ceramic mug warm in her hands. She took slow sips, feeling the last of the morning run’s adrenaline settle into something steadier. Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pulled back into a tight bun. The cool weight of her badge on her belt was reassuring.
She’d rebuilt herself brick by brick since leaving Isabel’s apartment. The run had been punishing, the shower hotter still, and now the armor was back on. She could feel it — spine straight, face composed, mind clear.
At least, it was until her cursor hovered over the audio file on her desktop.
Ransom_Call_01.mp3
The file name was neat and impersonal. The reality wasn’t.
This, according to Lily Harper, was the first ransom call she’d received. But Victoria had been doing this long enough to know when someone was lying by omission. Lily had looked too composed when she’d handed over the USB drive. There’d been no tremor in her voice, no fumbling in her explanation. And she’d made sure to be the one to provide the file instead of forwarding a direct recording.
Victoria’s gut told her thiswasn’tthe first contact.
She clickedplay.
A burst of static, then a voice — male, distorted, the timbre flattened by a filter that made it impossible to guess age or accent.
