Page 18 of Claimed By River

He reaches between us, finds my clit with his thumb, and rubs it in tight circles. “Come for me, angel. Come on Daddy’s cock. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hits me like a freight train, sudden and devastating. I clench around him tightly, and he groans my name. Everything is white noise, pleasure, and River. He thrusts twice more before stilling, and then he’s coming too, pulsing inside me, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he shudders through his release.

For a long moment, we breathe. The room smells like sex and sweat and us.

River lifts his head, kisses me softly and sweetly, completely at odds with the filthy things he was just saying. “Stay right here.”

He pulls out carefully and goes to the bathroom. I’m tender, sensitive, aware of every inch of my body. I hear water running, and then he’s back with a warm washcloth, cleaning me with gentle thoroughness that makes my chest ache.

When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling me against his chest. I settle into the curve of his body, my back to his front, his arm heavy around my waist.

“Thank you for making me your first,” he whispers into my neck.

My heart squeezes around something it has no business feeling, not for a marriage with an expiration date on it. I close my eyes and let myself pretend, just for tonight, that this could last.

Chapter Five

River

Living with Nadia turns out to be nothing like I expected. I thought sharing an apartment would be awkward, that we’d spend our days carefully avoiding each other until this whole fake marriage served its purpose.

Instead, every morning begins with an argument over coffee, and every evening ends with some sarcastic exchange that somehow leaves us both smiling. And somewhere between brushing our teeth side by side and deciding whose turn it is to cook dinner, we’ve quietly slipped into a routine that feels dangerously normal.

I live and work in the shadows, wearing danger like a cloak. Normal is something I haven’t wanted in a very long time. Now I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve simply never found the right person to share it with.

***

The problem with being a detective for all those years is that you never stop being one. You just stop getting paid for it.

I’ve been in the basement since six. Royal’s middle monitor has Damir Aronov’s face on it, the same photograph from a week ago, and I’ve been staring at it long enough that the pixels have stopped meaning anything.

“You’ve read that file four times,” Royal says without turning around.

“Five.” I drop into the chair beside him. “That’s the problem.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there’s nothing in it.” I scrub a hand down my beard. “A man finds his daughter after two years of looking. He calls her. He lets her hear his voice, lets her know he found her.” I gesture at the screen. “And then nothing. Seven days. No second call. No one watching her apartment. Nobody’s asked a single question about her at the shop.”

Roman looks up from the bench where he’s cleaning a disassembled Glock. “You’d rather he was kicking down doors?”

“Yes.” Then, I don’t have to imagine the worst. “A man kicking down doors is a man who doesn’t have a plan. This one’s got a plan.”

I pull out my phone and scroll to a number I haven’t used since I turned in my badge. My old partner picks up on the fourth ring and spends the first ninety seconds telling me exactly what he thinks of ex-cops who only call when they want something. I let him finish. Then I ask.

It takes him two days to call back.

***

“Aronov Construction,” he says, without hello. “Georgia Secretary of State filing, eight months ago. They’re prequalified on a redevelopment bid on the west side. Fully legitimate. Permits, bonding, the works.”

I close my eyes. “So he has a reason to be in Atlanta.”

“He has a reason nobody can question. A man with a bid in front of a city council can fly into Hartsfield twice a month for the next two years, and no one blinks.” A pause. “River. Whatever this is—”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with you.” He hangs up.