Page 27 of Secrets in the Dark

"I know." I recaptured her lips, silencing further objections. "Just this moment. Nothing more."

Her answer was to tug my shirt free from my waistband, hands sliding underneath to explore bare skin. The touch ignited something primal, burning through professional detachment and logical restraint.

We collided like forces of nature—all heat and urgency and desperate connection. Clothing gave way to skin, whispered encouragement to breathless moans. In the shadowed privacy of the prop room, surrounded by the tools of illusion and deception, we found brutal honesty in physical connection.

Her body responded to my touch with uninhibited abandon, back arching as my fingers found her center. I memorized her reactions, cataloging each gasp and shudder as she approached the edge.

"Please," she whispered against my mouth. "I need—"

"I know what you need," I assured her, adjusting our position to align our bodies. In one smooth motion, I entered her, swallowing her cry of pleasure with another kiss.

We moved together with escalating urgency, finding a rhythm that matched our desperation. Her nails scored my back through my shirt as she clung to me, face buried against my neck to muffle her increasingly vocal response.

"Look at me," I commanded softly, needing to witness her surrender.

Her eyes met mine—pupils blown wide with arousal yet still carrying that wary intelligence that had first drawn me to her. The dual vulnerability and strength in her gaze pushed me dangerously close to my own release.

"Stay with me," I urged as her movements became erratic, her internal muscles tightening around me. "I've got you."

Her climax broke like a storm—powerful and transformative. The sight of her abandon triggered my own release, pleasure crashing through carefully constructed barriers of control and professional distance.

For several heartbeats, we remained locked together, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the aftermath of connection. Neither of us spoke—what could we possibly say that wouldn't shatter the fragile moment?

Eventually, reality reasserted itself. We separated quietly, adjusting clothing and avoiding eye contact as the magnitude of our lapse in judgment became clear.

"This was—" she began.

"A temporary insanity," I finished for her, straightening my tie. "For both of us."

She nodded, somehow looking both thoroughly satisfied and deeply troubled. "It can't happen again."

"No," I agreed, though every instinct rebelled against the statement. "It can't."

An awkward silence stretched between us until she glanced at her watch and said, "I should go. Val will be looking for me."

"Of course."

She hesitated at the door, looking back with an expression I couldn't quite interpret. "Whatever you're doing with Gianna Bianchi... be careful."

The warning carried genuine concern, triggering an unfamiliar warmth in my chest. "I'm always careful."

After she left, I remained in the prop room, gathering my composure and analyzing the potential damage to my operational objectives. Physical involvement with a case-adjacent civilian violated every protocol in the undercover handbook. If Detective Chen discovered this lapse, I'd be removed from the operation immediately.

Yet I couldn't bring myself to regret it. Not completely.

As I finally departed for my shift, I noticed something lying on a nearby bench. Taking a step closer, the small object came into focus—a single rose petal—pink, slightly crushed, but unmistakable.

I froze, examining it more closely. The stem in the velvet box. The threatening note. The connection clicked with horrifying clarity.

Someone had been in the prop room while Nova and I were... distracted. Close enough to plant evidence. Close enough to observe our most vulnerable moment.

Tommy Lace.

Ice replaced the lingering warmth in my veins. I'd inadvertently exposed Nova to even greater danger through my actions. Whatever personal connection we'd established had potentially accelerated the timetable of her stalker's plan.

I needed to warn her without revealing how I knew she was being watched. My cover identity couldn't survive the revelation of my law enforcement connections, yet her safety might depend on that very knowledge. I'd leave a note—vague enough to maintain my cover but specific enough to convey the danger.

Making my way to her dressing room, I discovered it empty but unlocked. Security was unfortunately still a joke in the performance wing, since Enzo had shifted all cameras to the main floor. As I stepped inside, I noticed something on her makeup mirror—text scrawled in what appeared to be red lipstick:

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