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Cowering in the shadows, you remain,
A captive of my deadly reign.
For in the realm of endless night,
The watcher haunts, waiting, just out of sight.
Kane texted a photo of it to me while Kenna was recording. Unless there were fingerprints on the paper it was typed on or the envelope it was tucked into, it didn't provide many other clues. Simple printer paper and a white envelope. Kenna, John, and her band all touched it before anyone thought to try to preserve it, so if there were fingerprints, they were a lost cause three weeks ago.
The fact that the son of a bitch knows where she lives is concerning. But whether that's because he's been watching her as the poem says he has or whether it's because he's closer to her than she wants to believe, I don't know yet. With musicians, it's usually a fan. I can't remember a time when it wasn't a fan, actually. But my gut says it's someone close to her.
Honestly, my gut says it's her fucking manager. I'm just not sure if that's because I don't like the prick or if there's something more to the feeling. It could very well be that I suspect him simply because I don't like him. I don't know enough yet to make that call.
I need to see her place, see her shows, and feel out her audience. Maybe then I'll have a better idea of what the fuck we're dealing with here. But as of right now, I don't trust her manager, her band, or anyone else in her life.
"Do you need to grab anything while we're here, Sparrow?"
"Just a few things," she says, unlatching her belt. "It won't take me long."
"Is your sister-in-law here?"
"Yeah."
I kill the engine and hop out, circling around to her to help her down. She narrows her eyes when I slide her down my body, keeping her close until her feet are on the ground. It's not my fault she's short. Even in her heels, she barely reaches my chin.
"I know what you're doing, Gideon," she says. "It's not working."
"Just helping you down," I lie, feigning innocence. We both know I'm full of shit. I wanted those soft curves pressed up against me. I wanted to be all up in her personal space. And I wanted her thinking about me the whole time she's inside getting her shit together.
I'm not playing fair with her. I'm not playing at all. This is war. And if there's one thing a former Marine knows, it's war. Retreat? Hell.
"Go get your shit. I need to make a few calls, Sparrow."
"I hope one of them is a therapist, Gideon."
"Baby, I was a Marine for years. I've been there, done that." I smirk down at her.
"You were a Marine?" Her expression softens. She squints against the sun. It catches in strands of her hair, turning them from blonde to gold. "I didn't know that."
"I was, but that was a long time ago."
"No wonder you're so stubborn. And so bossy." That blinding smile creeps over her face. "And such a pain in my a—"
I slant my mouth down over hers, kissing the insult from her lips before she can finish uttering it. I mean for it to be a quick peck to silence her, but somehow, she ends up pressed up against the side of the truck with me pinning her hands to the window.
We kiss like we're starving for the taste of each other, coming back again and again. Every time we try to break apart, we're drawn right back together, unable to separate. I know damn well it's not what she intends to do, but she can't stop herself. She can't stop the greedy little whine she keeps giving me, either. That sound has me so hard I'm ready to say to hell with getting her stuff.
I want her. Waves of desire roll through me one after the other. They crawl up my spine, sending shockwaves of need right to my cock. Fucking hell. I've never felt anything like it.
I devour her, ravishing her mouth like it's mine to claim.
Fuck it. It is mine.
She can deny it all she wants, but sooner or later, she's going to admit the same thing I realized five minutes after meeting her. This isn't a job. It's personal. Kenna Maxwell is going to be mine.
"Stop kissing me," she gasps and then kisses me again.
"You stop kissing me, Sparrow."
