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The slap of skin, her breathless moans, the way her nails raked his arms — every bit of it fed the hunger still gnawing at him. He drove harder, faster, chasing that oblivion, punishing himself with the knowledge that he should’ve let her leave … and taking her anyway.
She clenched around him, a hoarse cry ripping from her throat. He felt the shudder start in her thighs, travel up her body, and he followed her over the edge — one hard, final thrust and he was lost, spilling into the condom with a guttural curse.
They stayed locked together for a beat, breaths ragged, sweat slicking their skin. Then he pulled out and braced a hand on the mattress, his chest heaving. The taste of her still on his tongue, the feel of her heat still gripping him — it all made the self-loathing hit harder.
She’d turned her face toward the wall, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. He couldn’t tell if she was catching her breath or silently regretting everything.
Probably both. Like him.
Ronan sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. He should say something. Apologize. Make light of it. But the words stuck, useless, in his throat. Instead, the silence between them swelled — thick, loaded — until it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
Felicity rolled onto her side, pushing herself up. “Time for me to go.”
She gathered her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.
This time he made no move to stop her. She was right.
Tonight, her, had been a mistake.
When she reemerged, hair tied back in a low ponytail, dressed again in her tight jeans, a tailored shirt, and ankle boots, he remained seated, eyes fixed on the carpet. She grabbed her jacket, shrugging it on.
“For what it’s worth, she was a fool,” she whispered, voice low and guarded, just before the door clicked shut behind her.
He stayed seated, the emptiness in the room pressing in on him.
Loneliness crept in, cold and unrelenting, wrapping around his chest tighter than any embrace ever could. He rubbed a hand over his face, the weight of silence louder than any words he couldn’t bring himself to say.
3
He’s back
Fifteen months later …
“Another mailbox ripped out of the ground,” Beau said. “Fourth one in as many weeks. We’re increasing nighttime patrols. New shifts will go up this afternoon. Graham, you’re lead on this. I want whoever’s doing it nailed to the wall.”
Mailboxes.
Felicity kept her expression neutral and gave a short nod. Sometimes her life felt faintly absurd — mailbox thieves versus homicides and street thugs back in Denver. Give her the latter any day.
Still, orders were orders.
She grabbed the keys of her duty vehicle and headed out, climbing into the Durango to go take Ms. Harmon’s statement and collect whatever passed for evidence in a case like this. Her money was on bored teenagers — kids on vacation with too much time, not enough supervision, and a truck they thought made them invincible.
Felicity pulled up outside the unassuming clapboard house and cut the engine. She knew Galina Harmon. A little bit too well for her liking. But that was small towns for you. People inserted themselves into your life whether you wanted it or not.
Her jaw tightened as she observed the front of the property. The damage was more than a mailbox ripped from the ground.
A lot more.
Half the front fence lay flattened, dragged clear across the sidewalk, the rambling rose bush torn out with it — roots and all.
Felicity retrieved her camera from the back and started documenting the scene, working methodically.
Her peripheral vision caught the owner stepping out of the house, pugs swirling around her legs. Felicity bit back a sigh. The last thing she needed was the added chaos of those three unruly dogs.
“Galina,” she called, voice even but carrying, “I’m going to need you to stay on the porch for now. And please keep the dogs inside.”
Thankfully, the woman nodded and ushered them back through the door before taking up position at the top of the steps, standing sentry.
