Page 42 of Reclaimed

That has to be it– why heat's licking up my spine at the thought of him instead of my veins turning to ice. My nervous system has spent years learning all the wrong lessons. I probably just prefer the rougher stuff because that always meant it would be over sooner with Commander Martin.

Yup, that’s it, I was just ready for it to be over.

Except if that were the case, then why did his promise of continuing feel like something to look forward to?

Nope. Sleep Jersey.

I roll toward Kenzie, looking for something tangible to ground myself with. I watch the slow rise and fall of her back and unintentionally start to match her breathing as my eyelids grow heavier. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, catching on the split that refuses to heal because I keep raking my teeth over it.

Enforcer? Riggs had asked as he studied my face in the mirror, the hunger in his eyes hardening into something callous as I nodded.

Come to think of it, that was the last day I saw Miller, too. Which has to be a coincidence.

…right?

A cold unease unfurls inside me as the pieces of a ridiculous conspiracy theory begin to slot together. And despite every rational part of me insisting that the thought should terrify me, it bleeds into something restless beneath my ribs.

Eventually, exhaustion wins out, but sleep offers no escape. Every fractured segment of my dreams is haunted with his lingering stare.

16

TALON

The sensor beside the balcony doors flashes orange as the security system enters into diagnostic mode, HAKR confirming that it’s offline but looping for the monitoring service. I slip my phone back into my pocket before pulling a black balaclava down over my face.

The door handle offers no resistance when I test it. Fucking morons. Just because it’s on the second floor doesn't mean it’s safe to leave unlocked. But hey, just makes my job easier.

I ease the door shut behind me, stepping into the guest wing of the sprawling manor. I’ll never understand the appeal of having a house so obnoxiously huge that entire rooms aren’t used or even fucking furnished.

What’s the point?

Such a waste of– well, everything– just to be able to brag about their excess.

From the footage and blueprints I reviewed, the office should be at the start of this hallway, just off the stairs. The house is completely silent, Maxwell and Lucille Nelson off at a charity gala to pad their public image as he prepares to run for The Registry’s open Treasurer position. After tonight’s assignment, it’ll be a wasted effort.

According to the encrypted job request I accepted, Maxwell caused a wreck three years ago and used his power and connections to make it disappear. His drunk ass crossed the center line, forcing a young single mother from The Fringe off the road as she was coming home from a late shift. He didn’t even stop– just left her stranded in the embankment. By morning, when the accident was discovered, all traffic footage in the area had been wiped. The medical report noted her blood alcohol levels were off the charts, no matter how much she claimed she didn't drink, leading to a ruling that she lost control due to intoxication.

She probably would’ve been better off dying in the accident. She lost her job, medical bills consumed her savings until she couldn't afford her apartment, and she hasn’t had a permanent address since. The father of her child is now fighting for custody, and she doesn’t have the resources to put up much of a battle. Maxwell Nelson’s reckless disregard for humanity ruined her life, and I’m here to find any physical or digital trail that can tip the scales and keep him from gaining even more power to exploit.

I enter the office to find an oversized mahogany desk across from a fireplace, flanked with leather wingback chairs. On the smooth surface of the desk sits a lone laptop, a wireless charging pad, and a formally posed family photo.

To avoid disrupting too many things, I start with the computer, connecting my phone and letting HAKR comb over the local files and cloud servers.

The client account for this assignment had some bogus name attached to it, with a carefully routed and untraceable payment. Even though it seemed a little suspicious, I didn’t hesitate in taking it. If they stiff me on the payment, I’ll survive– this assignment hit too close to home to pass up.

The man whose DNA I unfortunately share was once in the midst of launching his own political career. I don’t know what became of it, and I don't really give a shit.

Why would I care?

Why would I want to put a face or a name to the man who loathed the very fact I existed?

The man wanted nothing to do with me, yet somehow made my mother resent me for being the living proof of what he’d done. He funded and fed her addiction until it left her corpse rotting in one room while my terrified five-year-old self was locked in the closet for fucking days.

Knowing who he is wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. And as much fun as it would be to disassemble him bone by bone until he fit inside a box with more pieces than cheap furniture, I’d rather let him remain the fucked up motivation that drives me to filet a thousand more despicable pieces of shit just like him. I'll spend an eternity in hell with the bastard one day, and there, I'll make the devil look away in horror with what I do to him.

You reap what you sow, after all. Little did he know that fucking the eighteen-year-old intern behind his wife’s back would create a monster that could shatter his pious image before I could even tie my shoes.

The laptop pings as the recovery program finishes dredging through the deleted sectors of his hard drive. A folder resurfaces on the screen, buried three directories deep and surprisingly password protected.