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I didn’t care about the damn blood or who it belonged to. If he didn’t want to tell me, that was fine. All that mattered was that it wasn’t Jack’s.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emma
Jack was home late again. It was August, and I still hadn’t grown accustomed to his unorthodox schedule.
As he gathered my sleepy form off the couch and carried me to bed, I nuzzled my lips into his neck. In a daze, I watched his impressive silhouette move into the closet. When he exited, he slipped into a pair of briefs and spooned me beneath the cool sheets.
“You should be asleep,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the tender flesh behind my ear. I shuddered, pushing my backside into his groin. He responded by wrapping his arms around my middle, holding me to him. “How was your day, dove?”
He knew something was wrong. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa watching British reality TV, trying to take my mind off the anxiety. Every time I thought about returning to school, dread gripped me. I had concluded that I no longer wanted to go back. School used to be my sanctuary, my stress outlet. That was no longer the case. Plenty of people deferred. If I wanted to go back, it would be there. I had more important places to be than the hallowed halls of Columbia.
“Horrible,” I answered, “but revealing. You?”
“It’s better now.” He splayed his hand, moving it up the length of my torso toward my breasts. The pulse between my thighs quickened and I closed my eyes, shutting out the lights of the city.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked, my breathing hitched.
“No. You want to talk about yours?”
Surprising him, I hooked my leg behind one of his and had him on his back in less than two seconds. Thank goodness Mick had covered groundwork with me. I straddled him, his erection bare and in my hand. I moved upward, pumping him. His head fell back onto the pillows with a harsh groan, his hips flexing.
“I take that as a no.” He moaned, reaching for me. He took my shoulders and pulled me down onto him.
Our lips met with such ferocity that our teeth clanked together. Jack lifted me into position, his fingers digging into the flesh at my hips. The one thing that could make me feel better about my day was losing myself in Jack. He was my sanctuary now.
* * * *
Jack was gone when I woke up. He was only getting a few hours of sleep each night. He couldn’t maintain this routine for long—shower, fuck, sleep, exercise, work, repeat. He admitted to being exhausted just once, but still refused to take a day off until he caught the Babau.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge before the television caught my attention. Walking to the living room, I sat down cross-legged on the couch, eyes glued to the screen.
“‘…city’s violence is reaching new levels as another body is discovered in the Hudson. Channel Nine was first on the scene and reporters have confirmed that this body also had wounds to the neck and appeared to be drained of blood. We will send you over to Villanueva, who has just been briefed by the FBI… Villanueva?’”
I dropped my yogurt-coated spoon on the floor. The feed switched to a reporter standing on the steps to the NYPD Midtown Precinct. With frantic reporters milling about behind him, it looked as though a press conference had just ended.
“‘Thank you, Denise. Yes, the FBI just held a briefing for members of the press in which they stated they are not relating this death to the murder of Connor O’Connell as of yet, despite the similarities between the two heinous crimes. When asked about the possibility of a serial killer in the city, Supervisory Special Agent Matthew Wallace said they are merely considering it as a lead among many, nothing more. The name of the victim is being withheld upon notification of the family—’”
My phone rang. I tore my eyes away from the screen, jumping to answer. It was from a blocked ID, but sometimes Jack called from strange numbers.
“Hello, little one.”
A chill skated down my spine at Luca Nicoletti’s voice. My throat dried instantly, and I gulped to moisten it. Fia, unaware of anything but his own little world, prowled by my feet, licking yogurt from the spoon.
“H-how did you get this number?” I stammered.
“Is that the most important question you have for me?”
I tried again. “Did you tell the Babau to kill that man?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Don Luca replied, aloof. “In response to what Jack O’Connell did to one of my men. Did your boyfriend tell you about that?”
I chose not to respond. Perhaps it was better for Don Luca to be under the impression I was kept in the dark—which, I suppose, I was. But I knew a bit more than I let on.
“Just as I thought,” he surmised. “Mr. O’Connell still doesn’t trust the girl who lays down her life for him, I see.”
“Is this why you called?” I asked, pressing his point. I had a sick feeling he was going to ask me to visit with him again—to provide proof of Nate’s letter. “You wanted to explain why you had your assassin mutilate someone?”
