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But he pictured Detective Skye Truman. From the minute Skye walked into his office and started asking him questions, looking at him with those cold cop eyes, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

She wasn’t his type. He went for petite and sweet, not tall and cynical.

He hadn’t meant to kill the ranger, it had been an accident, but damn had it been the most amazing night of his life. He didn’t know how he would be able to top it.

He slid the casserole into the oven just as Natalie walked in. He handed her a glass of chilled white wine. “Hard day?”

“The hardest.” She sipped, smiled. “You made dinner.”

“I did. You have”—he glanced at the timer—“forty-five minutes to shower and unwind and let me pamper you.”

“All this,” she said as she leaned over and smelled the flowers, “after your difficult day.”

“You make me forget all the bad stuff.”

“Aww, baby, that is the sweetest thing you could have said to me,” she said and kissed him.

Natalie was the type of woman he had to treat with kid gloves, with all the restraint he had spent years teaching himself.

“Do you want to join me in the shower?” she asked seductively.

He nodded, took her hand, and they went upstairs.

That he was able to control himself was a testament to his willpower and strength and, honestly, to his superiority. He lathered her, touched her, focused on turning her on, knowing exactly how to do it, how far to push her. He didn’t need the foreplay; his cock was still hard from watching Skye Truman watch him.

And when he put naked, wet Natalie on the bed, he closed his eyes and pictured the cop beneath him. Pictured her tied up, unable to move, unable to stop him from taking what he wanted.

When Natalie let out her pleasure in her ridiculously dainty, surprised cry, he heard Skye scream in rage, and only then did Trent feel his own satisfaction.

VII.

Skye hit her steering wheel over and over until her fist was sore, then drove straight to the Blue Goose. She slammed the truck into park hard enough to rock the chassis, then strode across the wet pavement and shoved the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder. It slammed shut behind her with a boom that echoed off the exposed pipes and salvaged copper tanks from the old brewery. Momentary silence fell among the crowd.

The familiar smell of beer and old wood usually grounded her. Not tonight. Then she saw her dad behind the bar, looking at her, concern on his face before he hid it. She let out a breath and most of her rage with it.

Her dad was already pouring a stout before she reached her favorite stool. Nick Truman had three decades on the job, retired five years ago, still built like a man who could kick in a door. Growing up, he’d been her anchor, especially after her mom died. Even through his grief, he had always been present. Now, he was her best friend as well as her father.

He slid the glass across the scarred wood without a word. He always knew when she struggled.

She killed a third of it in one angry gulp.

“Garcia yanked me off Calderon,” she said.

Nick grunted, wiping the bar with a towel that had seen better days. “What’d you do?”

“Talked to the girlfriend to confirm his alibi. She asked why, I told her.” Mistake, Skye knew. “She ran to Calderon. He ran to the governor.” She shrugged and stared into the dark beer like it might hold answers. “He’s going to rape again, Dad. Probably kill again. And I’m supposed to . . . what? Hand the file to Brian and smile?”

Nick leaned on his elbows, voice low. “You’re close. That’s why they pulled you. Men like Calderon feel the noose tightening, and they start calling in favors.”

Skye squeezed the glass. She wasn’t certain that was the reason why. If it were, why would he continue to taunt her?

“He didn’t even try to hide it this time,” she said. “Fatally cut Banner’s throat. By accident, according to the Me’s report, then he rolled her into the weeds like trash. He’s accelerating. Something lit his fuse a year ago, and I can’t find the match.”

“You won’t find it tonight,” Nick said. His eyes, the same steely blue as hers, held steady. “I’ve carried cases that still wake me up. Guys I knew were guilty walking around free. You keep chewing on it, you’ll drink yourself stupid, eat your gun, or get yourself fired. None of those help the next woman who ends up in the morgue.”

Skye looked away, jaw clenched so tightly, it ached.

“Listen to me, kid.” His voice dropped, the old cop surfacing. “Serials like him don’t stop. They escalate until they screw up big. He already left DNA. He’s arrogant. That combination? It’s a countdown. Your job is to stay on the board so you’re there when his clock runs down.”