Page 45 of His Verdict
“It’s not a big deal,” he says, as if sensing the frantic, screaming panic that is erupting inside me. He’s trying to downplay it, to normalize two decades of obsessive, covert surveillance.
My mind is a Tilt-a-Whirl of shock and horror.
The words leave my mouth before I’ve even consciously decided to say them. The shock of his revelation has obliterated my carefully constructed plan. All I have left is a raw, desperate instinct to confess, to lay all the cards on the table.
“I was approached,” I blurt out, the words a clumsy, frantic mess.
He looks up from the phone, his nostalgic, sad expression vanishing in an instant. The mask of Jasper Donovan Sinclair slams back into place. His eyes are sharp, analytical, dangerous. “Approached by who?”
“The FBI,” I say, my voice trembling. “At the courthouse, after the hearing with Marcus. A woman. An agent. She cornered me in the restroom.”
He doesn't look surprised. He doesn't even look angry. There is just a quiet, weary resignation in his eyes, the look of a man who has played this scene out many times before.
“I knew it would happen eventually,” he says, his voice flat. “It's their standard operating procedure. They see a new face in my inner circle, someone they think might be vulnerable, and they make a move. You're not the first person they've approached, Olivia.”
He looks at me then, a new, sharp intensity in his gaze. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, my heart hammering. “I told her I had nothing to say to her. She… she knew about Arthur Vance. She said it wasn't a car accident. She offered me witness protection. A new life.”
He just nods slowly, processing the information. He seems more interested in my reaction than in the FBI’s actions. “And what did you do?”
“I took her card and I left,” I say. “I haven’t called her. I wasn’t going to.”
He's quiet for a long moment, just watching me, his gaze so intense it feels like he's peeling back the layers of my soul. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I am braced for an explosion, for an accusation, for the cold, final click of a gun’s safety being released.
Instead, his expression softens into something I can't quite read. Surprise. Relief. And something else. Something that looks almost like… pride.
“You told me,” he says, the words a soft, wondering statement.
“What?”
“You told me,” he repeats, a slow, strange smile spreading across his face. “They usually never do.”
My blood runs cold.They?The other women? Who I had to believe were presumably offered the same deal by the FBI?
“What… what happened to the others?” I ask, my voice a barely audible whisper.
He doesn't answer. He just gives me a long, meaningful look that says everything and nothing at all. He doesn’t have to elaborate. My mind, vivid and terrified, fills in the blanks. I see a series of faces, women who came before me, women who were seduced by his power and then approached by the Feds. Women who, unlike me, made the fatal mistake of staying silent. Of keeping that business card a secret. And I see Jasper, his face cold and impassive, discovering their betrayal. I see them being disposed of. Quietly. Efficiently.
A violent shiver racks my entire body. I have just walked through a minefield and, through sheer, dumb instinct, have managed to step in the one safe place.
He closes the distance between us, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs gently stroking my cheeks. His eyes are blazing with a raw, triumphant emotion.
“You made a choice, Olivia,” he says, his voice a low, thick whisper. “A hard one. I know it was. And you made the right one. You chose me.”
He is happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy. My confession, my act of survival, he has interpreted it as an act of loyalty. An act of love. He believes I have finally, irrevocably, pledged my allegiance to him. And in this moment, looking into his blazing eyes, I’m not sure he’s wrong.
He leans in and kisses me.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire.
He reaches down for the towel slung around his waist. He doesn't untie it. He just lets it drop.
He is magnificent and terrifying in his nakedness, fully aroused, his body a testament to the brutal power he wields so effortlessly. He doesn’t give me time to think, to process. He lays me down on the bed, striping me of my clothing.
He comes down over me, his body a hot, heavy blanket. He doesn’t enter me. Not yet. He just holds me, his hands roaming over my body, rediscovering every curve, every plane, worshiping me.
He kisses me, his mouth a reverent exploration of my own. He kisses my eyes, my cheeks, my throat. He murmurs against my skin, a litany of praise and possession. “Mine,” he whispers, the word a brand against my collarbone. “Finally. You were always meant to be mine.”