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I don’t know if someone switched off the air conditioner or if the cold sweat that breaks out over my body is from the icy chill coming from the imposing figure in the doorway.
Van Gogh is here.
He’s not in the shadows or waiting behind the flames. He’s here in the light, donning his trademark black attire. Unlike years ago, he isn’t wearing a hoodie and jeans. My dark vigilante sports an expensive-looking three-piece suit tailor-made for his body.
But what’s most noticeable—other than his definitive scowl and his haughty disposition—are his brilliant green eyes swirling with flakes of gold. He looks otherworldly—like simmering coal ready to spark into flames.
“If you’re done jerking off to my client’s tasteless attire”—Van Gogh pushes through the door, frowning at my tank top and lack of bra—“we’ll be leaving. Unless Blake Worthington wants to cry a little more. My client seems to enjoy lies as much as she does frat boys.”
Oh, hell no.
I jump from the chair and level Van Gogh with a look that doesn’t scare him.
“Yes, Ms. Carmichael?” The fucker tilts his head, daring me to say something stupid. “Did you have something to add? Surely, Detective Lee hasn’t convinced you to talk when you know to remain silent.”
Fuck him.
Right in the armpit.
Who does he think he is, barging in here like a real attorney?
You know what? It doesn’t matter. Clearly, Van is in the mood for games.
“Actually,” I say sweetly, “I just wanted to hug you.”
Immediately, Van Gogh’s posture stiffens.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Detective Lee’s gaze volleys between Van and me as I step toward Van. “No one here would believe me. But you do, don’t you?”
Van’s gaze is ice cold. If I didn’t know him, I’d be fearful that he would shove me away before setting the entire precinct on fire for hugging him. But I do know him, and he won’t do shit in front of witnesses.
“Uh.” Detective Lee shuffles back as I take hold of Van’s forearms and squeeze.
For so long, I felt like Van was a dream—a figment of my imagination—but here he is, still an asshole.
“Thank you, Mr.…”
I pull Van closer until there’s merely a breath between us, holding his angry stare in a challenge.
“Cain,” he clips out, as if the surname disgusts him.
I tilt my head and offer him a smile. “Mr. Cain,” I repeat, rolling the name around momentarily. I’m not dense enough to think he’s given Lee or me his real name. After all, he’s still a wanted criminal in South Carolina.
“Well, Mr. Cain, thank you for coming to my rescue.” With one last warning look, I pull the boy I once promised to run away with into my arms, and just like back then, he makes me regret it.
“Are you finished copping a feel, Ms. Carmichael, or should I ask the good detective here to turn off the cameras?”
Van Gogh or Mr. Cain—whatever the hell his name is—can go straight back to hell, where he came from.
Pulling back, I let the bastard go and face Lee. “If you have any more questions, please call my attorney.” Lest I be the only one to suffer by having to speak to him.
Detective Lee nods. “Stay local, Ms. Carmichael.”
Stay local.
Where the hell would I go? No one would believe this insanity or have the power to help me. I’m literally at the mercy of three shitty men.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
