Page 3 of The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth as anxiety brewed in my chest.

“How much did they cost?” my cellmate asked, at the same time a door down the corridor opened and shut. The echo raised the hair on my arms.

I heard him before I saw him.

And instantly knew he was the fed they’d sent for me.

His voice was professional and disinterested, though an elusive timbre intertwined each word: an abrasive edge, like a deep, dark sin one kept locked in the pits of their soul.

His next word—Gianna—touched the back of my neck, a brush of steel wings against sensitive skin. I wiped the feeling away with a hand, pulling my hair over one shoulder.

“Probably too much,” I finally responded, oddly breathless.

The prostitute nodded like she completely understood.

She was beautiful—behind the makeup, the drug abuse dulling the sheen in her eyes, and the years of servicing New York’s finest men, I was sure.

A kindred soul if I ever saw one.

The fed’s voice drifted to my ears once more, this time closer as he spoke to Martinez. I couldn’t hear what was being said over the commotion in the other cells, but I could tell her voice had softened and her Hispanic roots were coming to the front, her words rolling in a sensual way.

I rolled my eyes. A workplace romance.

Cute.

However, I didn’t believe he was taking the bait. I could feel his disinterest against my skin, hear the cold tenor in his voice.

A shiver ghosted through me.

For the love of God, he was only a fed. I’d dealt with Made Men since birth.

I leaned back with an indifference I didn’t feel and twirled a long strand of dark hair around my finger.

The room grew smaller, the walls closing in like they had too many times before.

I inhaled slowly. Released it.

Turning my head, I looked out of the cell.

Martinez stood in the hall, staring at the fed’s back as he came in my direction, a look of pure unrequited adoration in her gaze.

I guessed there was something kindred in us all.

Steel bars trailed his image as he passed each cell, his eyes averted. His stride was effortless. The set of his shoulders, the relaxed carriage of his arms at his sides—the stance oozed confidence and devastation, as though brick and mortar and female hearts could turn to ash at his single command.

His gaze flicked up and caught mine, heavy and emotionless, as if he was looking straight through me.

My heart turned cold in my chest.

Our exchange lasted only a second, but the glance stretched into slow-motion, stealing a breath of air from my lungs. I crossed one leg over the other, baring a generous amount of thigh. Like a warm blanket, a sense of security wrapped around me. As long as they were looking at my body, they’d never see what was behind my eyes.

Nevertheless, the first place he looked as he reached my cell was straight into my eyes. Heartless. Invasive. Blue. His gaze burned, as if I was standing in front of an open freezer on a summer day, hot and cold air meeting like tendrils of vapor around me.

As he stood in front of the barred door, with a dangerous presence that touched my skin from several feet away, I was sure he was the one locked up. It simply didn’t make sense the other way around.

A dim light in the hall flickered above his head.

His dark hair was shaved short on the sides, faded with an expert hand. Broad shoulders and crisp black lines, his suit molded his toned body. Control. Precision. He exuded it, like the colorful stripes on a venomous snake.