Billy Hargrove Flayed Novels & Stories

Even Hargrove took a small step back‚ his heartbeat spiking for just a second before he steadied himself. Drake's hand landed on my shoulder. Firm. Heavy. A silent command pressed into my muscle. ‘Don't. Not here. Not now. They want you to lose control. Don't give them the satisfaction.’ I clenched my fists so hard my claws pierced my own palms. I felt blood pool in my hands under the table. But I didn't move. I didn't speak. I sat there and let the gold burn in my eyes while Hargrove watched me with the kind of cold authority that came from a man who had served four Alphas before me.

“Look at me now—my hair, my weight, it’s different. I’m not that guy anymore. Those are from my undercover op, before—” Hargrove’s fist connected with my check, the impact snapping my head to the side. Pain exploded, stars bursting in my vision, and I tasted fresh blood. “Enough lies!” he roared. “You think we’re idiots? You ran to Moretti, betrayed the Bureau, and now you’re spinning stories to save your ass.”

"Richard's not done." "No. But tonight cost him more than it cost us." "Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "Hargrove's fully in your corner. He told me while you were talking to Ellis. Said he admires how you've handled the pressure." "He told you that." "People tell me things. I have an honest face." He said it without vanity. Just a fact.

It grew louder, more insistent, like the guy was trying to punch a hole through the wood. “Open the damn door! Some of us have actual jobs in the morning!” I grabbed my sweatpants, yanked them on, and muttered, “Stay here. I’ll handle this idiot.” I opened the door just enough to glare out. Mr. Hargrove from 614 stood there in a ratty bathrobe, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, face red with righteous anger. He was in his late fifties, perpetually grumpy, and had the loudest marriage fights I’d ever heard through these thin walls.

“That’s incredible—” “No.” I cut him off sharply. “No, it’s not. I’m not interested. Not at any price.” My pulse thundered in my throat. “He’s a creep. He’s been monitoring me. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Ignoring the stunned confusion on Hargrove’s face, I turned on my heel and headed for the door, my legs shaky. I fought to keep my face composed, but inside I was unraveling. *Can I even trust Hargrove? What if I just walked straight into their trap?*

A knock came at the door. “Enter,” he commanded without lifting his gaze. His trusted private investigator, Mr. Hargrove, stepped inside. A thin, composed man with steady hands and even steadier eyes. He bowed respectfully. “Sir… I have gathered every document you requested.” Old Mr. Salvatore looked up sharply. “And?” Hargrove hesitated. “Sir, before I continue… I need to ask, are you prepared for the truth? It will… change everything.” “Speak,” the old man said sternly. “I am not afraid of the truth.”

"We finished this. I watched you solder these joints, Kira." "Someone shredded them," Kira whispered, her hands shaking as she pointed to the wall. "This wasn't an accident, this was deliberate." "A bit of a setback, I see," Hargrove said. His voice was like silk over a razor blade cutting through it. We spun around. Mr Harlan Hargrove stood there, looking far too comfortable for a man standing in a disaster zone. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his charcoal suit, looking entirely too calm. Beside him stood the supervisor, Miller, who wouldn't look any of us in the eye.