Page 9 of Drag You Down (Bloody Desires #2)

GAbrIEL

Me

Dinner? Ichabod misses you.

I send the text to Dominick, smirking. I know perfectly well that he’s not a cat person, which of course means that Ichabod spends every second Dom is over trying to get into his lap.

What we need to talk about isn’t fit for public venues, though, and I vastly prefer my own orderly space to his organized chaos.

Dom

Only if you’re paying.

Me

Even better. I’m cooking. Pasta alla vodka.

Mentioning liquor of any kind should be enough to get him to agree to come over, even though we both know the alcohol will burn off during the cooking process. He knows he’ll get to “taste test” to make sure everything is up to par.

Dom

Yep. Gotta wrap up a case. Fucking paperwork. 8:30?

A case. That could be interesting, but if he’s wrapping it up, chances are it was actually solved. Never mind that that doesn’t mean a conviction is imminent, though.

Me

See you then.

I set my phone aside and turn back to my laptop, where my own work is waiting. The accounts I’m balancing are a mess, and no one bothered to escalate the issue to me until the tangle was beyond what standard back-office staff could handle.

Good thing I like puzzling things out.

I usually like the challenge, but tonight, my head isn’t in it.

All I can think about is Levi, my little lamb, who wanted me so desperately that it scared him away.

I glance at the box I’d given him, the watch still inside, and I scowl. I don’t understand why he didn’t take the gift. Was it too fancy? Too worldly for someone obsessed with religion and a deity that’s long since abandoned him?

I know plenty of religious people who revel in luxuries.

Maybe I need to start off smaller. Would he like flowers? They wither and die so quickly, but they’re beautiful. Chocolate? He’s thin, too thin, and he could use the treats. New shoes? His had seemed battered and faded.

I doubt it would escape Father Zachariah’s notice.

I grit my teeth, and instead of turning back to the accounts I’m meant to be sorting out, I open up a new tab on my laptop. I type in the name “Zachariah Carpenter,” but nothing immediately stands out. That’s suspicious in and of itself, and I grab my phone to send another text to Dom.

Me

I need a favor.

Three dots immediately pop up, which tells me how involved in his paperwork he actually is.

Dom

Of course you do.

I snort.

Me

Can you run the name Zachariah Carpenter? Something related to religious activity? Probably an alias, but he receives mail under that name so there has to be something.

I add the address of the apartment complex.

If anyone can find out more about the motherfucker who took a whip to my little lamb, it would be Dominick.

Dom

Yeah. I’ll bring the file later.

Later. I don’t want it later. I want it now. I start typing again, but another message from Dom pops up.

Dom

This is related to an investment client, right?

I don’t even hesitate to lie.

Me

Yes. He’s setting off red flags.

Dom takes a few minutes to respond this time.

Dom

K. I want the good bourbon tonight.

Of course he does. I send a thumbs up emoji.

I go back to my laptop screen, scrolling the page. There are too many Zachariah Carpenters, and even adding “father” to the mix doesn’t come up with anything helpful.

Father .

My lip curls into a sneer. Someone who beats a member of his congregation so thoroughly isn’t deserving of the name.

I try the background check service I subscribe to, but even that one can’t help me unless I know which Zachariah Carpenter I’m looking for. It also refuses to believe that Zachariah is not the same as Zachary or Zack, so I get even more possible results to spend $20 on to unlock.

Ichabod suddenly jumps onto my desk and plonks himself directly on top of the keyboard, closing the tabs I’d been working in. I scowl at him, picking him up and setting him to the side.

Purring, he steps back onto the keyboard, and I have to move him again to keep him from entering random numbers into my spreadsheet. As little as I want to wait for Dom to arrive with his information, I’m not getting anywhere by obsessing.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy to stop, though.

I focus on Ichabod’s purring, petting him so he stops trying to climb onto my laptop, and it’s soothing enough to temporarily redirect my thoughts away from Zachariah onto Levi.

I wonder what he’d sound like in the throes of pleasure.

Would he mewl for me, squirming and whining for more? Would he moan and whimper?

Would he beg for “Daddy” the way I want him to?

My thoughts stray back to the whip marks on his skin.

Those were too severe, too much to be pleasurable.

I could show him what it could feel like to be caressed with a whip instead of taking penance from the pain.

Any amateur can hurt and cut skin — the thought suffuses me with rage all over again — but it takes a deft hand to pleasure the way he would deserve.

That’s assuming he’d ever want to feel the kiss of a whip again.

Ichabod decides he’s had enough attention and swats me, and I release him so he can spring off of my desk and onto the floor.

I force my attention back to my accounts, trying to undo the mess that others have created and sort them into something more orderly, and I’m startled when the doorbell rings.

A glance at my camera shows me it’s Dominick, and I get up to let him in.

Dominick Cho is an innocuous looking guy. He’s only 5’10”, and although he works out, he doesn’t keep muscle quite the way I do. I keep telling him he needs to lift more, but he blames his Korean genetics for keeping him small.

Excuses, excuses.

I do a double-take when I see him up close. “Since when do you have a beard?”

Dom grins at me. “Since this past week. My brother claimed I’d look terrible with one.” He strokes his chin and the dark hairs of his new beard. “I think I look dashing.”

“Dashing,” I repeat, shaking my head in amusement. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know he’s every bit as dominant in the bedroom as I am, I might’ve slept with him at some point. But he and I are similar enough to occasionally clash. “Is that what your nonexistent boyfriends tell you?”

“Look, just because Pratip didn’t work out…” Dom sighs and steps inside.

Ichabod races into the room, making a beeline for Dom’s ankles. Even though he’s been here enough time to know how to handle the cat, he almost trips.

My eyes immediately go to the backpack he’s wearing.

The files I need are in there. Forget the small talk; I need the files.

“Pratip was a prat, as they say in England,” I answer with a smirk, leading Dom to the kitchen. “Watch out for the cat. He’s trying to kill you.”

“Pratip was in the closet,” Dom corrects. “Also, you aren’t British. Don’t get all hoity-toity on me.” He sits down at the kitchen counter, setting his backpack down by his feet, and Ichabod rubs up against it.

I go to grab the backpack behind the cat, but Dom stops me.

“Food first,” he says. “I’m starving. I had to work through lunch so I could get off even remotely on time.”

“8:30 isn’t even remotely on time,” I remark, but I’m one to talk. I need those files, and I’m not sure I can be patient enough to cook before finding out what’s in them. I reluctantly start pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “Tell me what you found while I cook. See if you earn your bourbon.”

“I thought it didn’t smell tasty enough in here,” Dom remarks. “I skipped eating the celebratory cake somebody brought because I knew I’d be eating here, and now you make me wait?”

Ichabod jumps up against his leg, butting his head against Dom’s knee, and he stares down at him.

“Hate him less, and he’ll leave you alone. And I didn’t want everything to sit for too long,” I say, only to amend, “and you might not be the only one working late. Now, tell me.”

“About my day? Yeah, sheesh. It was this big fucking mess. We arrested a guy—who thankfully was too stupid to consider lawyering up—but then it turns out he and somebody else we had in knew each other? And they get into this loud fight, a nose gets broken, blood goes flying.”

As he rambles, I put water on for the pasta, salting it and trying not to let my impatience get the best of me.

Normally, I’d be amused by how many times Dom has to lift Ichabod and move him from his lap, but my stomach is in knots.

“While they’re fighting, some of the other people we brought in try to escape…

Just a huge commotion, all while I’m trying to do the paperwork I need to get the fuck out of there.

” Dom lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I got called in to deal with some of the fallout, Martino then begs me for some help with his shit?—”

I clear my throat, stirring the onions in the pan. “As much as I care about your shit-tastic day, I need to know more about Carpenter.”

It’s so obviously a fake name that I’m not sure even Dom or one of the tech whizzes in the department could’ve pulled something, but they’ve impressed me before.

Dom gives me a pointed look. This time, when he sets Ichabod down, the cat runs off, finally tired of tormenting his favorite visitor. “You weren’t at Club Alpha last Friday,” he says instead of actually answering my question.

It takes me a few seconds to realize what he’s even talking about.

But I always go to Club Alpha on Fridays. Club Alpha is the best BDSM club in New Bristol. Membership is exclusive, discreet.

But I hadn’t even considered going last Friday.

I’d been too busy trying to find any information at all about Levi. Without a last name or even a birthday, I have even less to go on than for Zachariah Carpenter.

How is it possible, in this day and age, that Levi barely exists? I’d tried calling the building office, but I got a generic phone tree with no way to talk to a real person. The city property office only listed the holding company as the owner, no further contact information.