13. Could It Be Him?

Angel.

I couldn’t stay in that office a second longer.

My legs moved before my brain caught up, carrying me down the hallway and past the glass walls.

I didn’t realize I was heading for Cyrus' office until I was already knocking on the door and hearing his voice call, “Come in.”

He looked up from his desk, eyebrows raised. “Jesus, Angel—you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I did my best to hold it together, clenching my jaw against the tightness in my chest. “I’m… not feeling too good. Might be something I ate. I just—need to go home.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded. “Get some rest. And Angel?”

I paused, hand already on the door.

“If you’re feeling better tomorrow, let me know. We’ll regroup.”

I nodded once and walked out, the box—that box—still sitting heavy in my bag, like it was burning a hole through the fabric.

The first thing I did when I got home was head straight for the shower.

Steam curled around me as I leaned into the spray, letting it scald my body. But no amount of water could erase the image of that finger, limp and stiff with blood crusting around the base.

Or the ring.

I shut off the water before I drowned in the memory and stepped out.

Next stop was the mini bar. I grabbed the half-empty bottle of bourbon, a glass, and took it to my home office—the one I almost never used. It still smelled like dust and paperwork.

Sitting down, I poured a drink, and stared at the wall.

Who the hell did I piss off this badly?

This wasn’t a message. It was a declaration. Someone wasn’t just trying to hurt me—they were staking a claim.

Leaving me a warning. And no matter how I thought about it, this was something far more intimate than any threat I’d gotten in my career.

Besides, this didn’t feel like work.

It wasn’t about a case I've solved or a CID drama. It wasn’t even about Dan, as much as my instincts wanted to pin something this twisted on him.

Sure, he had a motive. But that note… You belong to me, my Falco. That wasn’t Dan’s style, unless he was trying to throw me off.

I took another sip, relishing the way my throat burned. My chest tightened as someone else surfaced in my mind.

The masked man.

The one I can’t stop seeing every time I close my eyes. The one whose mouth felt like a sin I never wanted to recover from. The one who kissed me like he already owned me.

Could it be him?

I set the glass down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim, and grabbed my laptop from the top of my desk.

It booted up with a soft chime, and I logged into the agency database, fingers already typing before the thought fully formed.

If I could just find the guest list from the masquerade ball, maybe—maybe—I’d be able to match a face, a name. Something.

I searched the location, filtered the date, and pulled up the incident report.

Access Denied.

I frowned and tried again.

Still locked.

“Goddammit,” I muttered under my breath.

Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and called Cyrus.

“Angel?” he picked up almost instantly.

“I need clearance,” I said, skipping pleasantries. “From the masquerade ball. I need to look through the attendance file.”

There was a pause. “Why?”

“It might help with a lead I’m following up on. I just need to look.”

Another beat of silence, then he sighed. “Fine. You’ve got temporary clearance for that folder. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, already clicking back into the database.

The file opened within seconds this time, lines of text filling the screen. But the moment I started reading, the pit in my stomach deepened.

There was nothing there.

No guest list.

No host name.

No sponsors, no security footage, no details about the event beyond the bare minimum: private location, elite access, charity affiliation—all vague information that I already knew.

It was like someone went in and scrubbed the file clean. Like someone didn’t want anyone knowing who was really there that night.

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. Then, I shut the laptop with a sharp snap and took a long, burning swig of bourbon.

Back to square one.

No leads. No answers. Just a severed finger, a ring I’ll never forget, and a note that was both a threat and a promise.

You belong to me, my Falco.

I exhaled shakily, eyes locked on the glass in my hand.

I closed my eyes as I tried to remember something about the masked man. I had been pushing him out of my mind, maybe it was time to open up to him and try to remember something that made him stand out.

Grabbing my notepad, I jotted down what I could remember.

Height: Should be 6ft and above.

Black hair.

Blue eyes.

Chiseled body.

Plump ass…

This wasn't helping. I adjusted my slacks. I couldn't believe I was half hard just thinking about his features.

Fuck…

I pushed the notepad away and forced myself to think. I couldn’t just sit here without doing anything.

Max could still be out there—hurt, scared, or worse—because I had walked away without a second thought. I didn't want to imagine him dead. I don't think I can deal with that.

I downed the last of the bourbon, the burn of it doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of guilt slicing through me.

I should’ve checked in with him, should have sent him a text. I should have called last night after I got home.

But I didn’t.

I had been so wrapped up in my own spiral—trying to forget the masked man, trying to pretend I wasn’t unraveling—that I left Max alone in that damn supply closet.

I had told myself that he knew it was casual. I told myself he’d be fine.

But the ring and finger staring at me said otherwise.

I stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a harsh scrape against the hardwood. My fingers fumbled for my badge on the desk.

I’m still an agent. I can still do something.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat, grabbed my keys, and left the apartment, locking the door behind me.

I had a lead. A very small one, but it was all I had.

The last place I saw Max was at the club.

If something happened to him that night, it started there. Maybe someone saw him leave. Maybe they followed him out. And maybe—God forbid—he never even made it out.

The scenes outside my car window blurred as I sped through traffic, heart thudding louder with every block.

I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have backup. Hell, I didn’t even have a warrant.

But I had instincts. And right now, they were screaming at me to move because something terrible happened to Max.

And the worst part—the part that made me scared—was that Max might not be the last person that something terrible would happen to, because of me.