Page 21 of Double Standards
“This way.” The order is velvet wrapped around steel.
I trail after him, arms wound tightly around myself, like that’ll shield me from whatever’s coming. The hallway feels colder than it should, sterile and echoing with the sound of our footsteps. My fingers dig into my sides, nails biting through the cotton as if I can anchor myself to this moment, to my body, before it spins out again.
Axel doesn’t slow down. His strides eat up the corridor like he owns it, like the building itself was constructed for his pace.I’m forced to jog just to keep up, the soles of my sneakers slapping awkwardly against the tile.
I swear I catch the ghost of a smirk curling his lips.
He’s enjoying this.
The power. The control. The way I have to scramble just to stay a few feet behind him, out of breath and out of my depth. Maybe this is all part of the game, to rattle me before we even get to the main event.
I hate how it’s working.
Every step stretches the knot in my stomach tighter. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, flickering like they might burn out at any moment. Part of me wishes they would. That we’d get swallowed in darkness and I could just stop moving, stop pretending I’m not scared out of my mind.
But I keep going. Because I don’t have a choice.
We stop at a white door—of course it’s white. Everything about this place is clean, too clean for a man like Axel. It makes me wonder why he chose a place like this to have a meeting; a bespoke art gallery without a single soul visiting, aside from the men already here.
Axel pushes through the door and waits.
My first instinct is to back away, but I’ve never been a coward and I sure as hell won’t let Axel intimidate me. He’s spent all of his life making men bow to him, and I refuse to be just another name on that list, another spine he’s broken with a glare. My legs want to tremble, but I lock my knees and lift my chin instead.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there like a storm contained in human form—broad shoulders blocking out the light behind him, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
I hate that I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. Hate it more that some part of me cares.
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching for something—anything—to hold on to. I force them to still. If I show weakness now, he’ll devour it. He’ll twist it into leverage. I’ve played that game before, and I lost.
So I take a step forward. Then another. Until I’m right in front of him, close enough to smell the heat of his skin and whatever cologne he wears that smells like expensive woodsmoke and violence. My knees almost buckle. A storm of emotions floods me: fear, curiosity, desire, defiance.
I pretend I don’t know where it’s all coming from. But I do. I can’t stop my gaze from trailing over him—how the fabric strains against his muscles, how his tattoos twitch when he swallows.
He sinks into the chair behind a sleek desk, saying nothing, just watching me. Then he gestures to the chair across from him.
“Why am I here?” My voice trembles, my body resolute.
“You wanted time,” he says evenly. “You’ve had time.”
A day. That’s what he callstime.
“I only had time to trace the calls,” I mutter, finally sinking into the chair. My skin prickles as he leans forward, arms braced on the desk. His tattoos snake up his neck, coiling like secrets.
“And?” he presses.
“They came from the D.A. 's office,” I reply, locking eyes with him. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
His lips twitch. That cold, infuriating smirk appears.
I rise, frustration bubbling up. “You wasted my time.”
“Sit.” His voice is a whip, and then I feel the weight on my shoulder. I turn to find Colombo behind me, his grip firm, unyielding.
When I meet Axel’s eyes again, he looks almost bored.
“Detective Lopez,” he utters her name like a death sentence.
“What about her?”
