When I call

The heavy door of the Maybach clicked shut, sealing out the damp city chill and plunging us into a quiet, warm bubble of dark leather.

I settled back into the plush leather, resting my arm on the center console.

Beside me, Quinn sat stiff as an iron rod, his posture rigid, his knuckles white where his fingers gripped his knees. I could feel the sheer, trembling rage rolling off him in waves.

His breathing was fast and shallow, misting slightly against the cold tinted window.

He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, hyper-vigilant, every nerve ending in his body wired for a fight.

Ever since the North Harbor acquisition, I knew whatever levity he had for me was gone, but the way he looked at me now was like I was a shadow waiting to swallow him whole.

He didn't trust me. He shouldn't.

I reached out, my fingers casually brushing against the cuff of his leather jacket. Quinn flinched at the contact, a sharp, instinctive jerk away from my touch.

"Relax, Detective," I murmured, my voice a low, smooth purr in the dim cabin. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."

"Don't touch me, Ronan," Quinn snapped, his voice tight and raspy, vibrating with raw anger.

He turned his head to glare at me, his eyes dark, wild, and dangerously beautiful in the low light. "Just tell me what you want. You paid off the hospital. What is the catch?"

I studied his face. The faint purple shadows under his eyes, the fierce line of his jaw. I had no rational explanation for why it had to be him.

Out of all the people in this filthy city, out of all the threats and assets I managed daily, I was hopelessly, irrationally fixated on a broke, vengeful police officer.

I wanted him. I wanted to break his composure, to see what lay beneath that desperate, unyielding pride.

But that wasn't why I paid the hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

When I looked at him, I didn't just see a stubborn cop. I saw a ghost.

The guilt was an old, rotting weight in my chest, a debt I could never truly speak aloud. It was a gesture born of remorse, even if I wrapped it in the velvet trap of my own control.

"You always expect the worst of me, Quinn," I said softly, leaning slightly closer.

"You are the worst," Quinn spat back, though his voice wavered slightly as the distance between us closed.

I ignored the insult, letting my gaze drift down to his mouth. His lips were slightly parted, his breath catching in his throat as I shifted my weight toward him.

The air between us grew thick, dense with a sudden, suffocating heat.

"Let's talk about terms," I whispered, reaching out again. This time, I didn't touch his jacket. I let the back of my knuckles gently stroke the warm, sensitive skin of his jawline.

Quinn let out a soft, sharp intake of air. He didn't pull away this time. Instead, his head leaned back fractionally against the headrest, his eyelids heavy, his lips parting further as if he were silently begging me to close the distance, to bridge the edge between hatred and desire.

"Terms?" Quinn croaked out, trying to maintain his grip on his anger, though his pulse was hammering visibly in the base of his throat.

"Yes," I hummed, my thumb tracing the swell of his lower lip, feeling the tremble in his body. "A contract, perhaps. Drawn up by my legal team. Complete and total sexual exclusivity."

Quinn's eyes snapped open, blazing with shock. "What?"

"You heard me," I murmured, smiling wickedly as I felt the sudden spike in his heart rate. "In exchange for your family's lifelong security, you give yourself to me. Exclusively. No other men. You sign the paper, and you belong to my bed."

Deep down, I knew he would never agree. His precious badge, his rigid sense of morality, his stubborn pride—he would rather burn than put his name on a piece of paper like that. But teasing him, watching the conflict tear through him as his body betrayed his words, was a thrill I couldn't resist.

"You're out of your fucking mind," Quinn breathed, his chest heaving as he stared at me. "I am a detective, not your whore. I will never sign a contract with you."

"Are you sure?" I whispered, leaning in until my lips almost brushed the shell of his ear. "Your body seems to be saying something entirely different, Quinn."

Quinn swallowed hard, his skin flushing dark red. He gripped my wrist, his hand burning hot against my skin, but instead of pushing me away, his fingers clung to me, trembling. He parted his lips again, his head tilting toward mine, a desperate, silent surrender lingering right on the tip of his tongue.

Before he could speak, before the fragile, electric wire between us could snap—my phone chimed loudly in my pocket.

The moment broke. Quinn jerked back as if he had been burned, tearing his hand away and slapping it against the door handle.

I pulled out my phone, looking at the glowing screen. It was a message from Jamie.

My smile disappeared instantly. Of all the fucking times for Jamie to interrupt.

Quinn was already shoving the Maybach door open, the cold rain spraying into the car. "Keep your money, Ronan," he choked out, stepping onto the wet asphalt. "I'm done with your games."

"Quinn, wait," I said, my voice sharp, dropping the teasing tone entirely.

He turned back, his eyes angry and wet with rain.

So perfectly beautiful.

"When I call, you answer. Never forget that."

Quinn froze, the color draining completely from his face.