She looked over at the mess. His blood had dripped onto some of the broken shards.
“Skye…”
She tilted her head back to study him.
“I know you’re not a f**king victim. I know…” He put his forehead to hers. “That you’re mine.”
***
Alex Griffin eased into his car. His gaze locked on the old fire station just across the street. Skye’s studio.
Reese Stokes stood outside, a guard who was watching Alex with an avid stare.
There was no sign of Skye or Weston.
Alex’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel.
Trace Weston was a very dangerous man. He was also a man used to being in total control—both of himself and of those around him.
When Weston had said that he had an alibi, that he’d been with Skye, those words had rolled so easily from the man’s mouth. His expression had been set. Seemingly open.
But Skye…her eyes had widened. A small movement, but one that Alex had caught because he’d been watching her so closely.
When it came to lying, Skye wasn’t as good as her lover.
In Alex’s experience, there was only one reason a man lied about an alibi.
Because the man was guilty as sin.
His gut had told him that Trace Weston was a threat, right from the very first moment that they’d met.
But Weston had saved Skye so he’d thought…
Screw what I thought.
He was going to keep following this case. He’d see where the evidence took him. And if he found out that Trace Weston was responsible for Ben Sharpe’s death, he would take the man down.
He didn’t care how much money Weston had.
Justice came to everyone, and the guilty—they paid.
Chapter Four
Trace stared down at the bandage on his right hand. Skye had insisted on bandaging him up. Hell, he guessed it was a good thing that he’d told his men to stock a first aid kit at the dance studio.
She’d carefully applied the bandages, her fingers so soft against his hand.
No one else had ever cared about him, not the way that Skye did. Hell, his mother had spent more time inside a bottle than out in the real world with him.
He’d bounced from foster home to foster home. He hadn’t felt any connection with anyone. He’d wondered if he could even connect.
Then he’d met her.
Trace stared at the stark white bandages. He’d lost control for a moment. Wanted her so badly…
He’d driven his hand right into the mirror.
Shattered it. But I won’t shatter her.
“Ah…boss?”
Trace stood just outside of Skye’s studio. The sunlight glinted down on him, and Reese waited a few feet away, studying him with cautious eyes.
Trace strode toward the other man. Skye was still inside. The clean-up crew would be arriving there soon.
“Is the cop gone?” Trace asked, getting right to business.
Reese nodded. “He just left but, you should know, I don’t think he bought your alibi.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to be able to tie me to Ben Sharpe’s murder.” Ben, why the hell did you seek me out? Why didn’t you just stay hidden? You could have stayed alive then.
“The detective’s gonna dig.” Reese thrust his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Are you worried about what he’ll find when he starts poking around in Sharpe’s past?”
Sharpe’s past was linked to Trace’s. “He’ll see the official records, nothing more.” Because there were things that Uncle Sam wanted covered up, too.
Some blood and death didn’t need to ever see the light of day.
“You went after Sharpe.” Reese’s voice was hesitant. “Is the ME gonna find anything on his body that will link back to you?”
Trace remembered the instant back at his penthouse when he’d shoved his forearm under Ben’s jaw. Rage had burned through him in that moment, and he’d reacted purely on instinct. “I think I’m clear.”
Trace glanced back at the fire station—no, it was a studio now, her studio. “Stay close to her.” He pulled out his keys.
“Boss?”
He glanced at Reese.
“There something that you want to tell me?” Reese’s gaze was steady. “You pulled me off Sharpe’s detail last night. Told me that you could handle things.”
Reese thinks I killed him. Trace shook his head. “There’s nothing else you need to know. Not yet.” Not until Trace had done some digging of his own.
Reese gave a grim nod.
Trace looked down at his hands. The tanned flesh. The callused fingertips. Sure, he wore the thousand dollar suits. He sat in the boardrooms. He played the games.
But there was more to him than that. And there would always be blood on his hands. One way or another.
***
Alex Griffin paused outside of the nondescript apartment. He heard the rumble of the train outside the building, the scream of sirens.
He was following a hunch that he sure hadn’t shared with his new captain. Because when it came to Trace Weston, the captain would let fear rule him.
Fear of money and power. Alex had seen that same shit go down before. It wasn’t happening again.
Alex raised his hand and pounded against the door. He had little to lose—so why worry about fear?
Footsteps shuffled toward him, then the door opened, and a man stared out at him with bleary eyes. Thick stubble lined his jaw, and his eyes, a muddy brown, widened as he took in Alex.
“You again?” the man demanded as he shoved back his dirty blond hair.
“Yeah, Parker, it’s me.”
“Hell.” The guy definitely didn’t sound happy to see him, but Parker Jacobs backed up and let Alex into his apartment.
The place was a dump. Not because of its location, but because Parker Jacobs was a slob. Half-eaten food and old newspapers littered the area. A pile of dirty clothes hid the couch.
Parker shoved the dirty shirts and jeans away and slumped on the faded cushions. “Why the repeat visit?” Parker ran a hand over his face. “I told you everything I knew about Trace and Skye last time.”
Alex didn’t sit. He crossed his arms and stared down at Parker, carefully studying the other man. There was a heavy bump in the middle of Parker’s nose, from an old break. A break that Alex knew Trace Weston had caused.
“Your parents took in Trace and Skye as foster kids when you were sixteen,” Alex said. He figured it was better to start back at the beginning.