Page 27

27

EDEN

P olice cruisers flood the carnival grounds, their lights painting everything in harsh red and blue, instantly putting me on edge. My heart pounds as I watch them approach the main office where Tyson keeps all the carnival’s paperwork.

Detective Morris leads his team into Tyson’s office. I spot the office through a window presenting Ty with paperwork—likely a warrant. At the same time, Tyson reviews it with that calm, professional demeanor he’s perfected. Several officers spread across the grounds in Morris’s direction, methodically beginning their search.

One of the younger officers approaches me. “Ma’am, could you please point me toward the storage areas?”

“Of course,” I say, keeping my voice steady and leading him toward it. Once there, I clear my throat. “I’ve been documenting the carnival for my podcast. Would it be helpful if I shared my notes about the layout?”

“That would be great. Officer Chen will accompany you to get those,” he gestures to his colleague.

I lead Officer Chen to Remy’s trailer, hyper-aware of the search continuing around us. The secret compartments Remy showed me should be safe—they’re far too clever to be found without insider knowledge. Still, cold sweat drips down my back as I gather my research materials.

The search continues for hours. I stay visible but unintrusive, answering questions when asked but keeping to myself. There is no need to draw unnecessary attention. When they finally leave empty-handed, I maintain my helpful demeanor until the last cruiser disappears.

Only then do I let myself breathe. Once the last police car disappears around the bend, I retreat to Remy’s trailer, hands trembling as the adrenaline lingers. I’ve barely closed the door when Remy slips in behind me.

“Smart,” he says quietly, studying me. “Staying in the background. Only speaking when spoken to.”

I sink into my chair, exhausted. “I didn’t want to draw attention.”

“Exactly.” He moves behind me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. The touch is grounding after hours of tension. “Most people try too hard to appear innocent. They talk too much and volunteer too much. You didn’t.”

“I’ve interviewed enough detectives for my podcast,” I murmur. “I know how they think.”

His fingers knead the tight muscles of my shoulders, and I lean back into his touch. “You’re learning,” he says, and there’s approval in his voice that makes my heart flutter. “Keep this up, and you might survive in our world.”

The praise in his words, the gentle pressure of his hands—it’s a heady combination. His touch is softer than usual—a reward, perhaps, for playing my part well.

Before I can respond, he moves to stand before me and leans down to kiss me. Not the brutal, claiming kisses I’m used to. He kisses me in an achingly gentle way, I would say affectionate, but that feels surreal, truly unlike him. His lips move against mine with a reverence that makes tears well in my eyes.

When he pulls back, his expression is vulnerable. “You’re incredible, Eden.” The words fall soft between us.

His words linger between us, and my mind races with the weight of what I’ve just done. As a true crime podcaster, I know exactly what I’m risking—obstruction of justice, interfering with a police investigation, potentially even accessory after the fact. Felonies that could destroy my career and land me in prison.

Yet I can’t bring myself to regret it when I look at him. I stand up and reach up to touch his face, half expecting him to pull away, but he allows the contact, watching me with those intense eyes as my fingers trace his jawline. The magnitude of my choice settles in my chest—I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross, chosen his darkness over the law.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words carrying the heaviness of my decision to potentially throw away everything I’ve built, my reputation, my freedom, all for these moments with him. Part of me wants to laugh at the irony—I’ve spent years documenting criminals, only to become one myself.

“I’m making you dinner tonight,” Remy announces, his hand lingering on my face.

I can’t hide my surprise. “You cook?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He tightens his arms around me. “Had to learn young. Foster homes weren’t exactly five-star restaurants.”

The mention of foster care catches my attention. I watch him pull ingredients from the small fridge. “I get that. After my mom died, I bounced between relatives. None of them really wanted me.”

Remy pauses, knife hovering over an onion. “How old?”

“Eight.” I lean against the counter, close enough to feel his warmth. “Car accident. Dad was already in prison. Armed robbery and three counts of homicide.”

He starts chopping, the rhythmic sound filling the silence. “Explains the true crime obsession.”

“Maybe.” I reach for a pepper and start to slice it. “What about you? How many homes?”

“Lost count after twelve.” His movements are precise and controlled. “Learned to cook in the third one. Lady ran a diner and taught me basics between shifts. Only good thing about that place.”

I process this, thinking of young Remy learning to survive. “Is that where you got that scar? The one on your shoulder?”

“No.” He tosses the onions into a pan, the sizzle sharp in the small space. “That was home number eight. Guy liked to put out cigarettes on kids.”

My hand finds his forearm, squeezing gently. He stills for a moment, then continues cooking.

“Your podcast,” he says. “It started with your dad, didn’t it? Trying to understand?”

“Yeah.” I hand him the peppers I’ve cut. “Spent years studying criminal psychology, trying to figure out what makes someone cross that line. Then I realized...”

“You wanted to cross it too,” he finishes.

The truth of it hangs between us as he stirs the pan.

I hesitate, watching Remy stir the vegetables. The question burns on my tongue, but I know how delicate these moments can be. Still, my investigative nature wins out.

“What about your parents?” I ask softly, keeping my eyes on the pepper I’m slicing.

His movements don’t falter, but I notice the slight tension in his shoulders. “Never knew my dad. Just another deadbeat who knocked up a waitress and disappeared.”

I wait, giving him space to continue or stop. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence.

“Mom...” His knife pauses mid-chop. “She married this guy when I was five. A real piece of work.”

My hand stills on the cutting board.

“He killed her.” Remy’s words come out flat, emotionless. “Shot her right in front of me when I was six. Caught her trying to leave him.”

The pepper falls from my trembling fingers. I’ve interviewed countless killers and studied hundreds of cases, but hearing Remy speak about his own trauma hits differently. I think of six-year-old Remy, watching his mother die, and my chest aches.

“Did they catch him?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” Remy resumes chopping, each strike of the knife precise and controlled. “He’s rotting in prison. Won’t ever get out.”

I process this information, adding it to my mental profile of Remy. So much about him makes more sense now—his need for control, his capacity for violence, his distrust of connections. And yet here he is, cooking dinner with me, sharing pieces of his past.

Minutes later, I watch Remy plate our food, my heart fluttering at this glimpse of domesticity. How he moves in the small kitchen makes me ache for something I’ve never let myself want a real connection with anyone before.

“Come here,” he commands, moving the chair so it’s placed parallel to the table rather than facing it and unzipping his pants to release his cock.

I move toward him, and he guides me onto his lap. My breath catches as he positions me, sliding inside me with a low groan. The fullness makes me whimper.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice rough against my ear. “You’re keeping me warm while we eat.”

I nod, trying to control my trembling, as he positions the plate between us on the table to our side and grabs the fork. The first bite he offers makes me moan—I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, feeding me another bite. His free hand strokes my hip, steadying me when I instinctively try to move. “I said stay still.”

The intimacy of it overwhelms me. How he’s taking care of me, feeding me while staying buried deep inside me is more than just sex. More than the rough claiming I’m used to from him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Remy says, offering another bite. “Just feel.”

I stop moving and accept the food. For the first time in my life, I let myself hope that this man has the same need for connection as I do.

I moan softly as Remy offers me another bite of the delicious stir-fry, the flavors exploding on my tongue. His cock pulses inside me with each small movement, reminding me of our intimate connection.

“Your turn,” I whisper, taking the fork from his hand and spearing a piece of pepper. I bring the food to his lips.

His eyes lock with mine as he takes the bite, and something in his gaze makes my breath falter. There’s hunger there, but not just for food or sex.

“More,” he commands, and I’m unsure if he means the food.

We continue like this, trading bites and soft touches. His free hand strokes my hip, thigh, and stomach—not to arouse but to maintain contact and intimacy.

I feed him another bite. When a drop of sauce escapes the corner of his mouth, I lean in without thinking, licking it away. He growls but doesn’t push for more.

“Open,” he murmurs, offering me another bite. The tenderness in his voice makes my eyes sting. I’ve never had someone take care of me, feed me, or hold me like I’m precious.

The food disappears slowly as we savor each bite and each other’s presence. Neither of us speaks much. We don’t need to. The quiet intimacy of sharing a meal while physically joined says everything.