Page 43 of Reclaimed

Smart.

Not smart enough to stop me, but a cute attempt.

I launch a script, a cavalcade of letters and numbers flooding the command window as it tears through every possible combination. It takes all of six seconds to crack it.

“Fucking moron,” I mutter as the folder opens.

Inside is a meticulously organized digital confession– messages arranging private meetings, wire transfers routed through shell accounts, and copies of the footage that mysteriously disappeared before it could be entered into evidence– it’s all here, practically fucking gift-wrapped for me.

My cursor hovers over a zoomed-in and sharpened still of the person behind the wheel staring directly at the camera.

Plot twist– it’s not him.

My gaze shifts from the screen to the framed photograph beside the laptop. The vapid smile is gone, but there’s no mistaking that face.

Turns out he wasn’t just covering his own ass, he was covering hers.

“Oh, Lucille,” I admonish, as I start scrubbing my trail. “You blitzed out, bitch.”

Having a cunt doesn’t make someone any less capable of being one.

I send the zip file off to the client, backtracking and cleaning up my physical presence as much as the digital one before slipping out into the night.

I crack the throttle as my front tire hits the parking garage ramp. The exhaust pops in quick succession, every sound ricocheting through the concrete structure. At the bottom, I smash my boot down to lock up the rear brake, my other heel scraping the cement as the back tire whips sideways and wrenches the R1M neatly into the stall beside my truck.

Speed. Control. A quick jolt of adrenaline to dull the hunger gnawing inside me.

For now.

That’s what seeing the little stray was supposed to do, but the taste I got of her didn’t curb the curiosity. It only made it worse, refusing to let me move the fuck on. I spent the night out at my cabin, hoping the change in scenery might smother the rest of my curiosity.

It didn't.

So, I took an assignment. Then another. But not even the high that used to come with those did it for me. Instead, there's a crawling pressure behind my ribs that tightens whenever I think about Miller putting his hands on her. As much as I enjoyed splitting him open with a bottle, I’d rather split her open with my cock.

Fucking nepo bastard. If his dad hadn’t pulled strings to get him a job he didn’t deserve, it would’ve saved me so much hassle. At least he won’t be fucking shit up and touching Jersey– or other Assets– ever again.

The sense of entitlement that comes with social status and bloodlines is fucking ridiculous. None of that makes you better, smarter, faster, or invincible. If anything, it paints a larger target on your back. Going around boasting about your net worth, the valuables you own, and your connections only creates an itemized list of what someone else can steal.

Half the blood in my veins is from an elitist fuck, and it’s fucking worthless. On paper, it might make a difference to other pompous jackasses, but that’s only because they’ve been programmed to believe it actually makes them superior.

Knocking down the kick stand, I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike. My boots thud against the concrete with each annoyed step as I stalk toward the elevator.

I need a fucking drink.

I heave a sigh as I crack open my wallet to pull out my access card, that restless fucking itch burrowing deeper beneath my skin, sinking into my bones where I can’t fucking reach it.

No more.

I swipe my access card to call the elevator, then pull out my phone to delete the goddamn shortcut to Jersey’s video feed. Cutting off my access should finally put an end to this shit.

But before I reach the settings, her feed is already loading.

I’m a fucking liar.

17

JERSEY