Then he pulls me to him, crushing my body to his chest, kissing the life out of me until my breath belongs to him. The scent of him wraps around me. Nothing matters but his lips, his tongue plunging inside, his arms holding me to him as though he will never let me go. Without thinking or caring, I reach for where his cock is straining against his trousers and run my hand over the rich fabric, making him groan into my mouth.
After losing myself a few seconds, I push Lorcan away, breaking contact.
“V,” he says, using the nickname I told him to use. One—because I change my name so often. And two—he can’t call me Viola in here. “You ruin me every fucking time I come in here,” he says in a hoarse voice.
His eyes are dark orbs, absorbing every part of me as his nostrils flare and his breathing is hard. But he steps back to give me space, his gaze switching back and forth over my face as though searing every detail into his skull so he doesn’t forget.
My breaths are short, and my hair feels in disarray. I ignore fixing myself. We don’t have time.
The last message I ever sent him from Pascal’s phone was a list of what I needed to get into this place and out again when the time comes.
Lorcan came good, getting Quinn quickly to make sure I was Verity Hawthorne in the system and that she was the one they arrested, not Viola Hawkes. I’m twenty-three, but Verity Hawthorne is seventeen. She can do time in a young offender facility instead of a women’s prison. I can’t.
Of course, there was confusion when my prints came back with a different name once they’d booked me. But with Lorcan’s lawyer on board, threatening to sue, it seemed like a minor mix-up. Someone must have taken the name down wrong.
In all the chaos, the murders and attempted murder, and my anonymous tip to the police naming Kristian’s fiancée as the person responsible for his death, they eventually believed that was what happened. Systems and databases don’t lie. And Quinn is that good.
The last part of my final message to Lorcan from Pascal’s phone was to get me in St Michael’s. I didn’t want a women’s detention center, and I didn’t want bail. Not many murderers pleading guilty get bail anyway.
The rest is fucking history….
Or it will be when I find Jude and get us both out of here. Jude going missing is the only reason I let myself get arrested.
There’s no other reason.
None.
The familiar buzz, the monster creeping under my skin, thinks differently.
I ignore it because it’s wrong.
Dark red flickers at the edges of my vision.
Liar.
“V,” Lorcan says again.
“What?” I snap back to reality, seeing Lorcan in front of me and no one else.
“Please tell me you found him.” His green eyes bore into mine, desperately needing something. Anything.
I rub my brow and let out a sigh. “There is a Jude Marques in solitary, but it’s not our Jude. It’s some kid with a tendency to stare at walls. I have a hunch he’s borrowed the kid’s name as a way to get into the more secure part of the facility.”
Lorcan’s eyes narrow. “Is that where Byron is?”
“Supposedly,” I say, giving the barest movement to my shoulders.
“What about Griffin’s guys? Do they know? Can they help?”
I give a shake of my head. “Bunch of whining bitches,” I say under my breath, rolling my eyes. The ones I have encountered have been trying their hardest to hurt me for killing Griffin. Even though I didn’t pull the trigger and Kristian did.
Lorcan takes hold of my chin gently, too gently for my liking, and turns my face toward him. “You need them. You can’t do this alone.”
Fuck em. “I don’t need anyone,” is all I say. My words sound hollow even to me. I’m tired and cranky at all this extra mask-wearing I have to do. Why couldn’t Jude have stayed put? Why did he have to disappear?
Because they all leave in the end.
“Did you bring what I need?” I add.