Page 59 of Fallen Rook

Tom

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Iris stuck her head into my car window, delicate brows bunching in concern.

“Yeah.” I’d already revved up the car. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “Just work. Tell Silas I’ll see him in two weeks’ time.”

“You got it.” She kissed my cheek, pausing. “Tom…you know you don’t have to come here so often, right? We’re doing fine now. I promise.”

“I know,” I said tonelessly. “I see you because I want to.”

And because the guilt is still eating me alive.

She looked uncertain. Normally, I’d stick around to check in on her. Today, however, I had a more pressing issue to tend to.

“Well, thank you so much for everything,” she murmured.

“Sure. Don’t mention it.”

I started driving before she stepped back fully.

That was how desperate I was to get out of there.

I checked my phone as I hit the accelerator. Enzo had read my texts, but hadn’t responded. I was supposed to meet him tomorrow.

I was heading over there now.

Enzo always made time to answer me. He made a fuss whenever I texted him first, too. Like the pope himself wanted to check how he was doing.

I’d been taking his availability and good nature for granted. Now that he wasn’t answering, I suspected something was wrong. And knowing who was after his throat, I needed to check for myself. Just because I wanted him incarcerated, that didn’t mean I wanted him dead.

I drove back to the city at record speed and parked across from his building. At the front desk, I abused my badge again, flashing it wordlessly at the same security guy before slipping into the elevator. At this point, I’d lost count of how many times I had abused my authority, power, and badge when it came to this man.

Principles? Gone. Morals? Foreign concept. Ethics? An obscure Greek island. I was becoming the very person I despised. Weak, soft, corrupt, and insatiable.

The ride up took an eternity. Finally, I rang his doorbell, ready to bite his head off for dropping off the face of earth without so much as a heads-up.

The familiar sound of his feet slapping the wooden floor filled my ears, and my pulse quickened without permission. The door swung open. And there he was. Alive, whole, albeit with a nasty-looking shiner.

I was panting, and for whatever reason, so was he.

I snarled in fury. “Enz—”

He punched me so hard, my head nearly did a 360.

Fuck, that stung.

“Is this going to be a thing?” I drawled, resisting the urge to touch my cheekbone. “Every time I come here, are you going to assault me?”

“No. But only because this is your last visit. Bye, fucker.”

He slammed the door in my face.

I stared at it for a beat, waiting for him to open it again and welcome me in with one of his silly jokes.

Was he always so violent in nonconfrontational situations? It wasn’t how I’d read him. The profilers I had worked with on his case were all in agreement that he ticked six out of the eight trait boxes for psychopathy—heavy on the superficial charm, but low on impulsivity and antisocial behavior. The pain kink never appealed to me, but to ride his ass, I was willing to endure mild violence.

I punched the doorbell again.

“Go away!” he groaned from the other side.