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Focus, Frankie. That’s what my dad used to say to me when I’d go off on my teenage tangents about one injustice or another. “You’ve gotta learn to focus on the minor details, Frankie.”
The minor details.
Not my stupid, cheating ex-boyfriend.
I train my mind on the details about the killer. And his victims.
There has to be a connection that I’m not seeing. I just know it. It’s unlikely, given the wounds, that the victims are unrelated to one another. It’s even less likely they are unknown to the killer.
Question number one. “How do they know each other?”
I work the moisturizer into my skin, starting with my arms and working my way down to my legs. The repetitive motions are a small comfort. The thought of someone intruding into my space, rummaging through my things, especially my underwear drawer, still sends a shiver down my spine. But he’s not here now.
And I’m dog fucking tired.
“Stop.” I scold myself, forcing my scattered thoughts into a semblance of order. Nothing’s going to make sense in this state of mind, and I need to be sharp. I need to sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.
I pull on my shorts and tank and collapse onto the bed, the weight of the day pressing down on me. As I sink into the mattress, a heavy sigh escapes, tugging exhaustion from the deepest corners of my soul.
But before my eyes fully close, a flicker of movement catches my attention. My heart leaps, and I jolt upright, my hand automatically reaching for my gun on the nightstand. With every muscle tense, I scan the room, searching for any signs of intrusion.
The damn curtain. That’s all it is. Moving from the evening breeze teasing my frayed nerves. I force myself to relax, my fingers loosening their grip on the gun.
“You need a break, Frankie,” I tell myself. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
But even as I try to convince myself, I know it’s more than just fatigue clouding my judgment.
The serial killer is making me crazy.
CHAPTER NINE
Damien
My lips curve into a grin as I watch Francesca rush around her house with her gun drawn, treating her own home like a crime scene. She’s in a frenzy after discovering the lingerie on her bed, moving from room to room in search of a criminal she’ll never find.
A thrill shoots through me, igniting a warm, tingling sensation that spreads through my entire body.
Blood surges to my cock, making it rock hard, knowing her fear is all because of me.
It’s me, kitten. I’ve invaded your sanctuary. Your fortress. Your home.
Watching her now is a stark contrast to her first sweep of the house when she moved more slowly, each step deliberate and cautious. But now? Now she’s rushing around with a gun in hand, and it’s hotter than ever. The panic in her brown eyes blends with the image of her as a strong, capable woman. Fearless and ready to fight.
Sexy as fuck.
Because of me.
“I’ll keep you safe, baby girl. Always.”
Something about her triggers the same protective instinct I typically reserve for only one person in this vast, indifferent world—Olivia, my sister, the only person who truly matters to me.
Until now.
With the house clean and the excitement fading, I prepare myself for the inevitable crash, but surprisingly, I’m treated to the sight of Francesca undressing in a tantalizing striptease, sending another rush of pleasure through me.
Beneath her professional attire of a floral blouse and navy suit lies a pale blue silk bra that cradles her luscious tits and panties that hug her shapely ass.
She keeps her physique with such dedication, feminine softness, and toned muscle, and it ignites an insistent ache in my cock. I let my imagination run wild to the moment I finally claim Francesca, peeling away each layer down to the lacy underthings she wears.
