Page 22 of Unholy Bonds

“No, I didn’t. I’ll check tomorrow,” I said, letting out a yawn. Enzo chuckled and nodded. He walked out, telling me to lock my door like I was a fucking idiot before he drove away on his motorbike.

Slamming the door and locking it, I hobbled up the stairs. I opened the door to my room and almost stumbled back. Her scent was a sucker punch to my throat.

It was so distinct, the perfume. Something erotic, yet peaceful. She smelled the same at the pub. She was in my fucking room. I fell onto the bed and cursed. She was in my bed. IN MY BED.

My cock strained against my boxers, and I groaned, wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. Why was I so aroused at the image of her in my bed, her long body spread over the covers, naked?

“Shit. I need to check my fucking head. This is insane.”

The nameless woman stood in front of me, her soft skin gleaming in the moonlight. When I walked closer, she slowly peeled her skin off until there were only bones coated with blood.

“What are you doing?”

“Show me what you hide underneath that skin of a lamb.” She sprinted toward me, her hands poised outward. Her claws dug into my cheeks until she was cutting through my skin…

Fuck.

I woke up, cursing. I took a cold shower. Even after the shower, I felt like a stretched elastic that was going to snap any second. My phone rang. “Nat? What’s it?”

“Will you be here today?”

“Yes, I have a few things to finish first. I’m going to meet a source, and then Detective Rosario. I’ll be there later.”

“I wonder when the detective is going to file a restraining order against you.”

“Don’t you give him any ideas, Nat,” I said, grabbing my files and pushing them inside my backpack.

“I have a new story, and Thatcher is salivating. I’m calling to ask you about your opinion,” Natalia said. I knew she hated Thatcher as much as I did, but her hands were tied.

“Well, if you want the story to come to nothing, give it to him,” I said with a scoff and Natalia laughed.

“That’s what I thought. God, I hate him.”

“I know. Bye.” I hung up. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I drove toward Down On Luck.

The pub was deserted, and it looked so different from how it looked at night. With a knock, I walked in. “Mr. Doyle, I’m Ryden Sinclair.”

“I called Patrick. He was the one who was bartending that night.”

“Thank you, Mr. Doyle.”

“Of course. It’s not a problem. Patrick will be here in a few minutes. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No. Thank you.” I took a stool. It took another five minutes for the bartender to come. He instantly remembered her.

“She was… umm, blonde, and she tipped me twenty bucks for a ten bucks tab that night. I’d seen her a few times before. She’d always come alone and sit in the same place. She never used her card, though.”

“If she comes back again, can you give me a call?” I asked, handing him my business card and a fifty. He looked conflicted. “It’s for a story I’m writing, and she’s a key piece to that story.”

“Yes, Mr. Doyle told me who you are. If she comes, I’ll remember to call you.”

Thanking him, I walked out with a grin.

The next step was the Detroit Police Department.

Detective Rosario’s eyes widened as soon as he noticed me walking into the DPD like I owned the fucking place.

“¡Mierda!”

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