Page 27

"Art gallery?" That catches my interest immediately. "Which one?"

"The Obsidian," Eli replies, already typing furiously. "Very exclusive, very private. By appointment only."

My mind clicks pieces together rapidly. "Get me everything on that gallery—ownership, clientele, recent acquisitions. Art's a classic way to move money."

Jensen's already reaching for his phone. "I'll have PD maintain visual as long as they can without being spotted."

"Good," I nod, standing abruptly. I'm about to turn away to head to the break room when my phone vibrates against my desk. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but some instinct makes me pick it up and open the message.

UNKNOWN

Did you enjoy the roses? Black suits you better than red, darling. Though, the other black gift would suit you even better.

My heart stutters violently, heat flashing across my skin before being replaced by ice. I keep my expression neutral even as my pulse thunders in my ears. My eyes flick up, scanning the bullpen carefully, looking for anyone paying too much attention, anyone who doesn't belong.

Nothing. Just the usual chaos of agents hustling about their day.

With deliberate casualness, I type a response with steady fingers despite the rage boiling beneath my skin.

Cute. Real fucking cute. Next time you break into my bedroom, at least have the balls to wake me up. I'd love to show you what I do to people who invade my personal space.

I hit send, watching the message deliver with vicious satisfaction. Let this creepy bastard know exactly who they're dealing with. I'm not some fragile victim that can be easily terrorized–I'm the nightmare that haunts other monsters.

My phone buzzes again, almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

Promises, promises. You're magnificent when you're angry. Almost as beautiful as when you come.

I glance around at my team, all of them absorbed in their work, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm being digitally stalked by someone who was in my goddamn bedroom last night. And now they're texting me like we're fucking pen pals.

I force my expression to remain neutral, not wanting to draw questions from my team, but my fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white. With considerable control, I type back:

Hope you enjoyed the show because when I find you—and I will—you'll wish you'd never laid eyes on me.

I hit send, picturing the message landing like a slap across their smug, invisible face. Let them chew on that. Let them wonder if their little game has pushed too far.

My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

UNKNOWN

We both know you loved every second of it. The danger excites you. Why else would you put on such a performance on your deck? You wanted to be watched. You wanted to be seen. And you were. Beautifully.

My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. The worst part is, they're not entirely wrong—and that knowledge burns like acid in my veins. I don't bother responding this time, shoving my phone roughly into my pocket as I stand abruptly, nearly knocking my chair over.

"I need coffee before I murder someone," I announce flatly, voice cold as ice. "Anyone else want some, or am I drinking alone?"

Jensen glances up, his expression shifting from concentration to mild concern at whatever he sees on my face. "You okay?"

"Peachy," I snap, already halfway toward the break room. "Coffee? Yes or no?"

"I'll take some," Eli calls out, finally looking up from his screen. "And for the love of God, get the real stuff, not that pond sludge Wilson made earlier."

"Pond sludge it is," I shoot back over my shoulder, the familiar banter helping to ground me despite the rage still churning in my gut. "Extra sludgy, just for you."

After a brief internal debate—pond sludge masquerading as coffee from the break room versus something drinkable—I abruptly pivot toward the elevators.

"Actually," I toss over my shoulder, "I'm stepping out. There's no way I'm drinking whatever crime against humanity Wilson brewed today. Text me your orders if you want anything decent."