~~ Sinveer's POV ~~
The body was still warm when I got there.
The warehouse reeked of death — not fresh death, but personal death. Intimate. Slow. The kind of death that made the killer take their time, not because they needed to … but because they wanted to.
Coco was strung like a marionette.
Chest open, ribs fractured like blooming petals. A rose carved into his skin — not painted, not drawn. Etched. Precise. And his mouth … his mouth was stuffed with a thornless stem.
No petals. No softness. Just the weapon.
I didn't need forensics.
I didn't need a profile. This wasn't a cartel.
This wasn't war. This was her.
I stood in the silence, gloved hands at my sides, coat open, wind licking at the edges of my sleeves. The officers outside didn't enter. I told them not to.
Because this wasn't their crime scene. It was mine.
I walked a slow circle around the body. Each step measured. My shoes clicked across old concrete as I studied every detail.
The cut pattern was symmetrical. Surgical. The bleeding had been controlled. She'd known when to cut and when to wait. Where to apply pain without breaking the machine too fast.
There were no defensive wounds. He'd been restrained.
And judging by the soaked metal basin beneath him, she'd kept him alive for hours. This was a ritual.
This was a fucking love letter.
I crouched beside him, eyes fixed on the open cavity in his chest. And I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Not fear. Not anger.
It was Desire. The way my heart pounded it has never beat like that. "Oh, this little kitty."
~~
Back in the car, I didn't speak for a long time.
Marek drove. He kept his questions to himself. Smart man.
But I could feel him watching me in the rearview mirror. Wondering what this meant. Who had done it. Why I was so quiet.
I wasn't quiet because I was angry. I was quiet because, I was hard.
Hard from the precision. The arrogance. The clarity of the message. If she hadn't signed it.
But she might as well have kissed my mouth and left her blood on my lips.
I pulled off my gloves, flexed my fingers, and stared at the red mark around my wrist — a pressure bruise from the last time I pinned her to my bed.
She left that there.
Now I had one from her on the inside, too.
DE LUNA ESTATE – 3:41 AM
I poured myself a glass of whiskey and stood in front of the surveillance wall. Paused on a frame.
Liach walked into HQ two days ago. Simple pencil skirt. Pale blouse. A file under her arm. But it's in the way she moves.
The way her heel hits, just a little harder than usual. The way she breathes.
I rewind five seconds. Watch again. She smiles at the front desk.
That little fucking smile.
A smile that says: You won't see me coming. You'll only feel it after it's inside you. God. She was inside me already.
I leaned back in the leather chair and closed my eyes.
Coco had been disposable. I haven't mourned him. But the kill — the style of it — the performance... It was the same artistry I saw in the girl I never caught two years ago.
The one who put a knife in my ribs and vanished into shadow, leaving me bleeding in my father's library. Back then, I thought it was a message from the Ciscos.
Now? Now I know better.
It wasn't just business. It was her style.
She came for me once.
Then she infiltrated my home.
My company. My head.
And now she was killing for herself.
Not to impress her father. Not to obey. But to show me.
To pull the leash back.
And God help me, I liked the tension in my throat when I realized it. Because she wasn't just trying to kill me anymore.
She was trying to seduce me in blood. And it was working.
She arrived at the same time she always did. 9:00 sharp.
Hair neat. Clothes flawless.
I was waiting for her at the entrance. She didn't expect that.
Her eyes flicked — just slightly — to my hand. The one resting on the security turnstile. She slowed her pace.
Then smiled politely.
"Good morning, Mr. De Luna." I said nothing.
Just stepped forward. Closed the distance between us. Stopped inches from her.
Her perfume was the same.
But there was something underneath it now. Steel and Blood.
She tilted her head. "Something wrong?" I let my eyes trail down her body.
Took my time.
Then looked back into her eyes.
And murmured, low and slow, "You smell dangerous." Her smile didn't falter.
But her breath hitched.
" I've always been dangerous," she whispered.
"How come? I wouldn't have guessed. You seem so... organized. Is the danger hidden in the perfectly aligned pens on your desk?"
She hesitated for a moment. Pressing in her hand to her chest.
"Dangerous in all the ways that keep things interesting, wouldn't you agree?
Especially in a place where secrets tend to collect like dust in the corners."
I leaned close. My lips at her ear. "You're starting to act too much like it."
I let the words hang between us. Let the heat bleed into the space. Then stepped back and nodded toward the elevator.
"Come up. We have a file to review." She followed.
But not like before.
This time, she knew I was watching every movement. Every flick of her lashes. Every shift of her weight. And for the first time, I didn't need to touch her.
Because I knew — She was already dripping beneath those perfect slacks.
Not from fear.
From the tension. The question.
How much does he know?
What is he going to do? The answer?
Not yet.
Not until she kills again. And when she does?
Then I'll open my arms.
And let her carve my name into her fucking bones.