Page 18 of Scarlet Thorns
Finally: “She asked if masked nights were regular events. Whether the same people usually attended. Seemed… affected by last night.”
Affected.
The word rolls through me like expensive liquor, warming parts of my chest that have been cold for years.
“If she comes back, give her Room Five and let me know immediately.”
“Osip—”
“One hundred thousand. Cash.”
His sharp intake of breath is all the answer I need. “Room Five. I’ll call you.”
I end the call and stare at the financial records spread across my desk. Igor’s betrayal demands immediate attention, strategic response, careful planning. But all I can think about is candlelight and the sound of her breath catching when I touched her face.
She was a stranger. One night of anonymous connection that should have ended when I walked out of that room.
But she felt like the only real thing in my world.
Blyad.
Chapter Seven
Ilona
It’s 8:15 a.m.
The fluorescent lights in the precinct buzz with their familiar electrical hum as I push through the glass doors. The scent hits me immediately— burned coffee, industrial disinfectant, and that particular staleness that comes from too many people working too many hours in too small a space. Normally, this cocktail of chaos and routine feels like coming home. Today, it feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
My desk sits in the corner of the bullpen, a fortress of organized efficiency surrounded by the controlled mayhem that defines the Boston Police Department’s administrative wing. Two monitors glow with case files and scheduling software, while my coffee mug— the one Dad brought me back from a conference in Chicago— sits exactly where I left it yesterday. Everything is the same. Everything should feel normal.
But I’m not the same woman who sat here yesterday morning.
The memory of candlelight and velvet chairs drifts through my mind unbidden.TMG— The Masked Guy. I’ve been calling him that in my thoughts because I can’t quite bring myself to think of him as a stranger anymore. Not after the way he listened. Not after the way he looked at me like my pain mattered, like my words carried weight instead of inconvenience.
Heat spreads across my cheeks as I remember his voice:Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Captain Jason Mulholland’s gravelly voice cuts through my reverie, and I look up to find him approaching my desk with that easy smile that’s gotten me through more difficult days than I can count. His silver hair is slightly messed from running his hands through it— a sure sign he’s already been wrestling with paperwork for an hour.
“Good morning, Captain.” I reach out and hand him the large coffee I picked up from the café down the street. “Dark roast, two sugars, splash of cream.”
His eyes light up as he accepts the cup, genuine gratitude warming his weathered features. “You’re an angel, Ilona. Absolute angel.”
“Just trying to keep you functional.” I settle into my chair, powering up my computer. “Though I have to ask— did you even go home last night? Because that’s the same shirt you were wearing yesterday.”
Jason glances down at his rumpled button-down and has the grace to look sheepish. “Caught red-handed. There was that armed robbery case from Tuesday, and the witness statements weren’t adding up, so I figured I’d just—”
“Jason.” I give him the look that usually makes junior officers confess to eating evidence room donuts. “You’re not twenty-five anymore. Your body needs actual rest, not catnaps in your office chair.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He mock-salutes me with his coffee cup. “Though I have to say, you look… different today.”
The observation makes me blink in surprise. Different how? Can he see it somehow— the fact that I spent last night in a room with a half-naked stranger, sharing secrets I’ve never told anyone? Do I wear the experience on my face like a scarlet letter?
“Different?” I keep my voice carefully neutral while my pulse jumps. “What do you mean?”
Jason studies me with those sharp blue eyes that made him an excellent detective and now make him an excellent captain.
