Page 1 of Captive Audience

1

ROOK

My penthouse on the twenty-third floor of the Lynch Continental had a commanding view of the Philadelphia skyline, but most nights, I preferred the view inside my study.

A wall of screens lit up the dark room, each feed stitched into the Beasts of Belfast empire: warehouses, bars, clubs, Aidan’s MMA gym, the hotels and casinos that washed our money clean. I watched our rivals, too. Their clubhouses, hangouts, and the homes of key members.

But none of them mattered tonight. Only one feed held my attention.

The apartment of Asha Sparks.

Or, as her growing horde of followers called her,Inferno. My favorite little red-haired true-crime podcaster, host ofCaptive Audience.

I switched the cameras until her living room filled the center screen.

“There you are,” I said, and took a slow sip of aged Macallan.

In the corner, Asha adjusted her phone on a tripod, pointing it toward an armchair. Good. I’d made it back in time to watch her tease her devoted cult with tales of murder and misery.

Wait.I shot forward in my seat. What the fuck was she wearing?

Fishnets beneath tiny black shorts that barely covered her arse, boots with dangerously high heels, and a tight black crop topstamped withIntroverted but willing to talk about serial killers. Her long red waves bounced with her every movement.

Christ. Was Asha usingsex sellsto attract a new audience? Or just trying to drive me insane while every bastard on the internet jerked off to her?

When I’d first learned of a local true-crime podcast, I’d listened toCaptive Audienceand been impressed with Inferno’s intellect and dogged tenacity. Something about her had called to me, and I’d needed to know who the person behind the modulator-disguised voice was.

I hadn’t realized how much that decision would change me.

Asha dimmed the lights and dropped into the chair, then crossed one leg over the other. Casual but sexy as fuck. She tugged a black mask over the lower half of her face and pulled a ball cap low over her forehead.

She thought the disguise made her untouchable, a mystery. But she couldn’t hide from me. One phone call had given me everything I needed. Her name, her address, her whole life wrapped in a neat little file.

The first time I’d seen her, I’d followed. Couldn’t fucking help myself. She’d been kitted out in activewear and headphones, and her ponytail had swished with each quick step.

Red hair, green eyes, the curves of a goddess.

Breathtaking.

Even then, the urge to be close enough to know her scent, to count every freckle across her cheeks, had been undeniable.

Asha’s walk had taken her onto the winding paths of Laurel Hill Cemetery, straight past my brother’s tombstone.

I’d been begging for a sign from Niall, for him to send me something to dig me out of the murky depths I’d been drowning in since his murder.

Asha was his message from the grave. A beacon of pure radiance in my sea of darkness.

My Wildfire.

I wondered how pissed she’d be if she found out we’d been in a one-sided relationship for the past threehundred and seventy-eight days.

Every time I thought of Niall rotting in the ground, it gutted me all over again. But watching Asha sparked something I hadn’t felt since the day he died.

Curiosity. Hunger. A reason to breathe.

As tempting as it was to manufacture an introduction, I didn’t. What was the point? Asha would sooner leap from a bridge than breathe the same air as a bastard like me, a criminal little better than the murderers she devoted her podcast to exposing.

And it was best I remained in the shadows. Her world was safe, clean, and principled. Mine was merciless, brutal, and carried a short expiry date. I wouldn’t expose her to that.