FAYE BLAKE – POV
The city never slept, but it bled nonetheless.
Bleach masked the blood, but not the truth. The warehouse reeked of something more—burned-out secrets and scorched betrayal. Faye Blake stood just outside the perimeter of the yellow tape, eyeing the cold body sprawled under a tarp and the bloody trail that vanished into darkness.
A kill shot. Clean. Professional.
Just like the last one.
She had been here before. Not in this exact place—but in the rhythm of it: bodies, blood, men with badges who thought their suits made them gods, and the way everything always circled back to the same tangled lie.
And then, of course, him.
"You're late," Ronan Vale said behind her, voice smooth and clipped like a loaded gun.
Faye didn't turn. "No. I just like to make an entrance."
He stepped into her line of sight. Ronan was still in his three-piece uniform of control: tailored charcoal-gray suit, crisp shirt, thin black gloves, and that face—sharp, cold, unfairly beautiful. His hair was slightly mussed tonight, which meant he was irritated. That pleased her.
"This is a federal crime scene," he said.
"Then get out of my city."
"Still territorial. Cute."
"I call it efficient."
Their gazes locked, and the silence that stretched between them could've cut the crime tape. For a second, Faye's fingers itched toward her holster—not out of threat. Instinct. Muscle memory. The same pull she always felt around him.
Dangerous. Addictive.
He was the only man alive who had nearly caught her in a lie—and the only one she'd ever let that close.
"Victim was shot once, back of the skull. Instant drop," he said, crouching next to the blood pattern. "No signs of struggle. Either the victim trusted the shooter or never saw it coming."
Faye stepped closer. "Like your last girlfriend."
He smirked. "You always this bitter when you're turned on?"
She crouched beside him, lips brushing the curve of his ear as she whispered, "Only when I'm working with men who think they're smarter than they are."
His breath hitched—just slightly.
She smiled and snatched the thermal scan from his gloved hand.
"Heat signature?" she asked, eyes scanning the printout.
"Still warm. Whoever did this left less than five minutes before we arrived. There's a secondary pattern near the north wall. Could've been a lookout. Or..."
"A witness."
Their heads turned toward the same shadowy corner.
Faye stood, already moving. "You take the left, I'll circle wide."
Ronan didn't argue. He never did when the stakes were real.
That was their thing—flirting with death while trying not to fall into each other.
RONAN VALE – POV
She was faster than he remembered. Sharper, too. The last time they worked a case together, she was still unlicensed, still playing rogue cop with a badge she barely respected. But now?
Now she was fire with a mouth and a motive.
Ronan moved quietly around the stacked crates, eyes narrowed, gun drawn low. His instincts screamed that something about this scene felt off—too clean, too symbolic. The victim wasn't random. The kill shot was personal.
And Faye... she smelled of danger and lavender and the kind of stubbornness that got people killed.
He spotted her moving across the upper catwalk. Silent. Gorgeous. Lethal.
And for one flickering second, he wasn't thinking about the case.
He was thinking about the last time they kissed. Rain on his coat. Her hand on his throat. And the fact that she pulled away before he did—always before he did.
Bang.
A crate slammed somewhere ahead.
Faye's shout echoed. "Movement—northwest corner!"
Ronan broke into a run.
FAYE – POV
She caught a glimpse of the figure—short, quick, all hoodie and shadows—bolting for the warehouse exit. She followed, ignoring protocol and backup. She didn't need it. Didn't trust it.
The figure slipped through a side door, and Faye crashed through after them, only to find—
Nothing.
The alley was empty. Cold. Moonlit.
But someone had been here. Fresh footprints, oil-smudged. They weren't fast—they were trained.
Faye's heart slammed against her ribs. Her gun lowered just as Ronan jogged up behind her, breath misting in the night air.
"Lost them," she muttered.
"You okay?"
She turned to him, the heat still lingering between them from the warehouse.
"I'm fine," she said, lying.
His gaze searched her face.
"Let's head back," he said finally. "I've got something you should see."
DOMINIC HART – POV
FBI Surveillance Van, Nearby
Dominic watched the heat signatures of Faye and Ronan on-screen, his jaw tight. He sipped his cold coffee and zoomed in.
They were alone now. Again.
"Too close," he muttered to himself.
He wasn't sure if he meant the killer... or them.
RONAN – POV
Back at the mobile command, Ronan pulled a sealed bag from his satchel and dropped it on the table in front of Faye. Inside: a card. Matte black. Gold edge.
Faye frowned. "Playing cards?"
"Not quite." He flipped it over.
A symbol etched in crimson: a wolf's head curled around a dagger.
Faye's eyes widened.
"That's..."
"Same one we found in your sister's case."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Her fingers curled into a fist. "You said there was no connection."
"I said I couldn't prove it."
She shoved back from the table. "You knew."
"I suspected. I didn't want you charging into it alone."
She stared at him. At the card. At the past trying to eat her alive again.
"You should've told me," she said, voice sharp.
"And you would've listened?"
Their eyes locked. No smirk now. No flirtation. Just pain.
"I would've done anything to stop this," he whispered.
She swallowed. "Then help me end it."
KILLER – POV
Unknown Location
They watched from the shadows, fingers tapping the edge of a window. The red card sat in a glass case, next to others—dozens of them. All with names. All with a purpose.
Detective Faye Blake's was next.
So was Ronan's.
Back to FAYE – POV
Later that night, Faye stood outside the warehouse again, alone. She hated silence, but tonight she needed it. The memory of her sister's unsolved case sliced through her thoughts.
And Ronan?
Ronan was a problem she couldn't solve.
He stood beside her in the dark, jacket half open, shirt collar undone. Less perfect. More real.
"You never walk away, do you?" he said quietly.
"Would you?"
"No."
He stepped closer, not touching, but burning all the same.
"You ever gonna stop hating me for doing my job?" he asked.
She turned to him, gaze stormy.
"You ever gonna stop pretending you don't want this?"
Silence. Breath. Fire.
Their lips brushed, then lingered.
And just as heat bloomed—
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Text: "You're next, Detective."
She pulled back, eyes cold. "We're running out of time."
Ronan looked at her, something dangerous in his voice.
"Then let's start breaking rules."