Coveted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Four

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

  And with my luck, that chance—that unlucky chance—would be while they’re rifling through my information should they suspect any ties to Kiera because they discover what’s practically in plain sight—her family’s ever-deepening connection to this case.

  Setting that little finger to my lips again, she gives me a nod. “We’ll figure it out, but can we please talk about this later? I just want you right now, need this right now.” She undulates beneath me for added effect, sucking me in deeper.

  Another hiss.

  Another throb.

  Another distraction from all the pressing affairs of our reality.

  Goddamn it.

  Wordlessly, I drop my forehead to hers in defeat. This woman can disarm me, completely undo me in seconds, even when I know better. Will I always be at her mercy?

  I know the answer, know it damn-fucking-well, but I don’t allow myself to admit it.

  Instead, I lose myself in her. Give her what she wants. One second I’m barely moving and the next, I’m fucking her like a savage, rearranging her insides as I rob her of all the air in her lungs. Each thrust elicits a louder moan. Her nails meet my back again, raking from my shoulders all the way down to my waist. No, scratch that, not raking—clawing. She’s clawing my back and I wouldn’t at all be surprised if she draws blood as she holds on for dear life.

  The pain is cathartic, though. I revel in it, go harder because of it. Sweat drips from my temples as I continue on in my feat to bring her over the edge, and even after she comes all over my dick, literally squirting her release with my name on her lips, I keep going until we’re both nothing more than a tangle of spent limbs.

  “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.”

  - Proverbs 3:5-6

  This fucking woman left me as I slept.

  Mood beyond foul, I drop into my desk at the command, the force nearly sending my coffee flying out of its cup.

  Ruby isn’t here, yet, wasn’t at roll call, but it’s a passing thought. As freaking always, my entire soul’s focus is about the infuriating and mysterious woman I’ve fallen for.

  The same woman I suspect has some extremely fucked up secrets in her past.

  I keep hoping—praying—that it’s my DV-warped mind jumping to the worst case scenario. Seen it one too many times. A few years working there, heck a few months even, can forever change the way an individual looks at the world. Suddenly, all types of questionable events or mysteries are tinged with the sordid haze of sex crimes.

  God, I know I’ve been a shit Catholic lately, that I’ve been neglecting my duties, avoiding the church simply because Father Lacerra couldn’t offer me absolution I don’t even truly deserve, but I’m begging you, please, let it be my mind coming up with the wrong conclusion.

  And to make matters worse? Sitting in front of me on the desk, where I left it as I rushed to the break room for my cup of coffee, is a copy of today’s newspaper. No need to go into detail of what’s splashed against the front. The headline says it all.

  BOSTON SLAYER BREAKS PATTERN—DEAD WOMAN FOUND IN PARK. IS NO ONE SAFE?

  Fucking assholes. I can answer that question for them. Considering how this round of killings is going, it’s safe to say that anyone making below two-hundred thousand a year should be just fine.

  Or maybe not. The Slayer, if it’s confirmed this is her latest victim after all, broke her pattern with this one. Maybe those headline-hungry bastards have a point in claiming no one is safe.

  Needless to say, Captain Porter and Lieutenant Thayer have so much pressure coming down on them from the Commissioner himself that their mood might be even uglier than mine.

  Actually, I doubt it.

  Shit. She just snuck away in the middle of the night while she was supposed to be sleeping in my arms.

  And here I go obsessing about it again.

  My pen taps harder against the desk. Faster. Can’t believe she did it. And there’s no wondering why, either. It was in the name of avoiding my questions.

  Well, tough luck. They’re coming at her anyway.

  Practically yanking my personal cell out of my pocket, I open my text thread with her, forgetting about caution, paper trails, all that crap.

  Me: We’re not done talking about this.

  I also forget I’m at work, that anyone can see me at this desk staring down at my personal. Just sit here, second after second, minute after minute, gaze locked with this screen as I wait for a reply that never comes.

  It. Never. Fucking. Comes.

  She’s trying to drive me crazy.

  Correction: crazier.

  It’s almost enough to make a man throw his cell across his job, in front of his coworkers.

  I’m seriously debating it when the phone on my desk rings. Snatching the receiver up to my ear, I bark, “What?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Detective. It’s Doctor Connelly. I have an ID on our female victim for you.”

  I instantly feel like a fucking asshole, an unprofessional asshole at that. Shaking my head, I scrub a hand down my face. “Doctor—my apologies. Coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. I’m a bit of a grouch prior.”

  Connelly chuckles softly. “Aren’t we all? No hard feelings, trust me. I get worse from my wife. She’s hell on wheels in the mornings.”

  Fitting, since Kiera’s putting me through hell, too.

  “Women,” I chortle along with him, taking another gulp of my coffee. “Alright, I’m grabbing a pen and paper. Hit me with the details.”

  The Doctor clears his throat, papers rustling in the background. “Vic’s name was Amber Darcy. White female. Aged thirty-two.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Defense attorney.”

  I stop scribbling momentarily.

  Attorney? Did she know the DuBois’ too? Does she have anything to do with—?

  “Cause of death?” I blurt out, forcing myself to push those nagging questions aside. Now isn’t the time to go there.

  “Same as the others; perfect laceration to the back of the neck. There’s no denying she’s one of the Slayer’s victims. The insertions are too precise.”

  Fuck.

  Clamping my eyes shut, I drop my pen onto the desk and squeeze the bridge of my nose. “That’s what I was afraid of. I guess the press was right then? Is anyone safe?”

  Doctor Connelly hums as he types something into his computer. “Certainly adds pressure to the already pressing matter.”

  Our conversation doesn’t extend much further after that. I’m hanging the phone back in its rightful spot just as Ruby’s walking in for the morning. I have to do a double-take upon her dropping into her seat. She doesn’t look good. At all.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I ask.

  My partner glares at me, the bags under her eyes all the more prominent. “Nothing. Long night, that’s all.”

  Her answer is too dismissive. So dismissive, in fact, that I’m about to prod some more and ask what she was doing exactly, but she shoots me down before I can utter a single word. “Drop it, Mav. I’m not in the mood. My head is pounding.”

  Interesting.

  Reclining in my seat, I observe her in a way she often does to me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d dare to say Ruby seems a bit hungover. She’s not just dealing with a hangover, though. There’s definitely more to it than just an excess in alcohol, and I have a feeling it has something to do with Nathaniel-fucking-Blackstone.

  * * *

  Later on that night, I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear my personal going off in my room. Despite never hearing back from Kiera, I don’t think anything of it. Actually, I assume it’s my mom given the fact it’s been a good week or two since I last heard from her.

  Grabbing my towel from the hook behind the door, I wrap it around my waist and stride over to my nightstand where the phone is charging. It’s stopped ringing by now, but I can see clear as day
it was most certainly not my mom.

  K. Missed Call

  Just as I’m about to call her back, a notification comes in—a message from her.

  Not just any text, either.

  Opening it, I can feel both my head and my traitorous dick start pounding in tandem, as both frustration and arousal climb to their peaks.

  K: I’m having a really hard time sticking to my promise. My pussy won’t stop pounding for you.

  God damn this girl.

  Closing my eyes, I focus on my breaths for a bit, detesting how easy it is for her to engage my lust like this. I have a feeling the world could be exploding into a million fiery shards and she’d still be able to get me this hard with a few strategic words alone.

  She knows this, too. It’s obvious. Instead of addressing the conversation we need to have—the one we’re going to very much have eventually—she’s deflecting in the best way she can.

  By turning me into a slobbering, needy beast hellbent on getting inside her.

  No. Not this time. I must remain in control. This topic must be discussed immediately.

  And do what? Confess her family are suspects in this case? That you’re investigating them, officially, and that’s how you stumbled upon those records?

  In all fairness, my boss got me those records because the doctor was one of the Slayer’s victims, and I discovered that by accident, as well as the proof that Clive Bennett was best friends with her father, yet the result is the same.

  Bringing up this line of questioning means that she becomes aware of the microscope I’m aiming at her blood relatives. My would-be girlfriend is smack dab in the middle of this mess.

  Screw it.

  Just as I begin typing my response—nice try, but we’re talking about this—another message comes through.

  A picture.

  Son of a . . .

  Kiera propped her phone next to her bed and is bent on all fours facing it, giving me the perfect view of her ass. Her puffy pussy lips strain against her thong. There’s a wet spot in the fabric of said thong.

  My mouth waters ridiculously at the sight.

  It would be easy, so easy, to just give in. To call her right this instant and demand she gets that pretty little ass over here where I can lick and pound her on every surface of my condo.

  Shit. My cock’s hurting.

  Sadly for both me and her, that’s not the only thing. For, although I hate thinking this way, and would love nothing more than to attribute her current behavior to her desire for me only, it’s also proving a part of what I suspect.

  A normal person would be questioning me by now, demanding to know what I’m talking about and why I want to bring this up.

  Instead, she’s ignoring the subject. Avoiding.

  Using her sexuality as a powerful means of distraction.

  That’s what some victims do, isn’t it? Some shut down, losing all touch with that side of themselves, but others . . .

  Others become hypersexual. Sex becomes their ultimate escape from everything they don’t want to deal with.

  It’s like getting stabbed through the chest. It really is. Ignoring that delicious picture and pushing for answers is the logical thing to do, but I’m so mindfucked I can’t even do that.

  Have no response to offer her, although my dick is practically screaming her name.

  My entire body feeling heavy, I let my phone fall onto my nightstand and sit at the edge of my bed, cupping my head in my hands.

  “Saul looked at David with suspicion from that day on.” - 1 Sam 18:9

  “Pick up!” I growl into my phone as it rings for what feels like the fiftieth time.

  I’ve been calling Ruby for the last twenty minutes and to no avail with each try. It simply rings through to her voicemail.

  Where the hell is she? What in the actual fuck is she doing that she can’t—

  “You have reached the voicemail box of—”

  “Goddamn it!” Ending the call, I toss the phone onto my bed and storm into the closet to finish getting ready for the evening.

  We were supposed to be heading to the DuBois estate to question Gerard and Jacqueline about Clive—seeing as they’ll be caught off-guard with their little event—but it looks like I’ll be going alone since my calls keep going unanswered and unreturned.

  Ripping my black tie off the rack, I slip it around my neck and begin doing it up, silently cursing Ruby under my breath. She’s pulling a me on me, and I don’t like it. Especially when I was banking on her presence to keep me on task, because we all know if I so much as see Kiera, it’s over.

  Although, now that I think about it, Kiera may not have anything to say, much less want anything to do with me, since I never responded to her messages last night . . .

  The thought makes me anxious, nervous even, but I can’t worry about that right now. Serves her right, anyway. She left me in the middle of the night, ignored me all day long, then came back as the hellion force determined to bring me to my knees instead of addressing the reason for her impromptu visit.

  No, can’t worry about that now at all. Kiera and her string of secrets will have to wait until after I question her parents.

  Hopefully, the Lord spares me and I won’t see her while I’m there.

  I call Ruby at least five more times on my way to the DuBois estate. Of course, there’s no answer. As soon as I’m parked across the street, I pull up our thread and type out a scathing message.

  Me: So help me God, Ruby—you better be on your damned deathbed. I can’t believe you’re flaking out on me. If I find out you were out tailing Nathaniel, I’m requesting a partner change first thing Monday morning, and yes, I’ll be sure to tell the Cap why. At the DuBois’—I’m going in. Thanks for the help, partner.

  I could give three fucks how douchey that sounds. I know I should because, for all I know, she could very well be sick, but my gut has never steered me wrong, and everything about Ruby’s radio silence screams it has to do with Blackstone.

  With a quick press of my thumb, I send the text and barrel out of my car thereafter, stuffing my phone into the inner pocket of my blazer as I cross the street.

  Ding, dong!

  The elegant bells resound from inside Kiera’s massive home.

  The last two times I was here, the door was answered promptly. First, by the housekeeper, then by Kiera herself. Considering the lights blazing and the date it is—Kiera did mention today is her mother’s planned event—I’m doubting my tormentor will be the one coming to the door.

  Beads of sweat break out along my forehead at the possibility and I clench my fists, glaring at the door.

  Right as I step forward to ring the doorbell again, the door swings open, the housekeeper from last time standing prime and proper. “Detective. It’s you again. How may I help you?”

  Well, then. Her memory helps save me time on bringing out my badge. “Good evening. I need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. DuBois, please.”

  The housekeeper’s appraising stare travels my form and, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a hint of disapproval in it. “Detective, you do have a knack for showing up at the most inopportune of times.”

  I almost blurt out that I’m aware there’s another ball, or whatever, going on but then realize what a colossal mistake that would be. Talk about giving away hints about my involvement with Keira. “It’ll only take up a few minutes of their time.”

  “They’re currently engaged—”

  “Please. It’s urgent. I’m sure Mr. DuBois will want to help catch the killer that murdered his close friend.”

  Nose practically turned up in the air, she acquiesces, turning to allow me inside. Like last time, I’m lead directly past the packed ballroom, with its glittering crowd, classical orchestra, and French Court-like elegance. I can’t help but search that crush of people desperately, although catching a glimpse of Kiera should be the last thing on my mind.

  The woman herself should be the last thing on my mind, as well. Her family’s too close t
o this case. Even without that, what’s going on with her derails my thought processes. I don’t need that type of confusion while I’m trying to work this case.

  As if simply not seeing her is enough to rid me of it. That woman is always on my mind, so deep in there I have no idea how I’ll ever extricate her.

  I’m led into the sitting room from last time, the housekeeper informing me that she’ll try to locate Kiera’s parents. Smoothing a hand down my lapel, I face the doorway, striving for a calm exterior.

  Can’t give anything away. Yes, I’m here to work the case.

  I’m also here to look further into Kiera’s parents and there’s no denying that. If what I suspect is true, that some form of familial tragedy took place in Kiera’s childhood, I doubt the parents weren’t made aware.

  Did they simply turn a blind eye? Brush it under the rug for the sake of pretenses?

  The thought clouds my vision with a haze of fury.

  Gerard steps through the door, sans his wife, and his expression seems relieved at the sight of me. “Detective. I was expecting your visit. Not tonight, of course, but I’m still glad you’re here.” He walks up to me and offers his hand.

  Shaking it, I analyze him, hiding my doubts. After all, if he was in such a hurry to speak to me, he could’ve found me using the card I left him. I almost tell him just that, but that would be far too brazen of me.

  Too unprofessional.

  Or would it?

  “Were you?” I hedge, cocking my head aside as his hand slips free from mine. “What can I do for you, Mr. DuBois?”

  Kiera’s father eyes me curiously, no doubt due to the sarcastic edge dripping off my tone. He doesn’t comment on it, though, simply clears his throat and straightens out his tie. “Please don’t tell me Clive was—”

  “A victim of the Slayer tearing apart your social circle? Yes, unfortunately, he was.”