Coveted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Four

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

  Copyright 2019 © N. Isabelle Blanco & Dee Garcia

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the reader of this ebook ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Cover Image: © Depositphotos

  Cover Design © Dee Garcia with Black Widow Designs

  Editing: © N. Isabelle Blanco with Black Widow Designs

  Formatting: © Dee Garcia with Black Widow Designs

  Contents

  Recap

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  About Dee

  About N. Isabelle

  In the last installment of the St. Cecilia Series…

  It’s well after midnight when I finally walk in the front door of my condo and toss my keys on the counter. I’m exhausted, on edge, and yet sleep is the last thing on my mind.

  At the forefront? Reality. Necessity. Duty.

  It’s time I stop running.

  It’s time I face this.

  Not just for the sake of this case, to put a stop to a killer on a rampage, but because it’s the right thing to do.

  My entire life I’ve been big on morality. On doing what’s right. Yet this one’s already costing me, and I haven’t even taken the first step in the direction of my desktop, yet.

  It’s time I read Kiera’s medical files.

  My entire being seems to quake with irrational fear at the thought. Why? Because—and it’s time I admit this to myself for real—I went and did it.

  Somehow, despite the fact it’s only been like a month since I met her, one packed with chaos and turbulent encounters, I’ve gone ahead and done it.

  I’ve fallen in love with that woman.

  And every fiber of my cop soul is telling me these killings are related directly to her family somehow.

  Don’t know if the ones from nearly nine years ago were, too. Despite years of obsessive research, I never found a connection between those eleven men that were butchered and left scattered through this city.

  But this round of killings does have one, a glaring one, and it’s going to undo me to confirm it.

  Biting down on my cheek, I rush to my desk, refusing to give myself another second to dwell on it. Within minutes I’m back inside the drive, searching for that folder with my girl’s name on it . . .

  Kiera DuBois.

  I almost throw up just reading her name. Stop being ridiculous. It’s probably just regular medical shit. Yeah. Okay. Because Elon’s was so regular.

  Hand shaking, I click open the file and begin my slow, focused trek through it, even as my heartbeat pounds in my ears.

  The first ten years or so is typical shit. Vaccinations. Visits for colds. The flu. What I know for a fact is typical, childhood accidents—

  And then, they’re not so typical anymore.

  Twelve years ago, Kiera’s file takes a turn for the odd, becoming riddled with vague treatments for a series of accidents that seem out of place.

  The first?

  Holy Jesus, the first sends a blast of sheer ice down my spine.

  “Ruptured hymen due to bicycling accident.”

  I nearly rear back right out of my seat. My head does jerk back, nostrils flaring, and I press my hands to my face. “Stop. Stop. It happens to a lot of girls. Don’t jump to fucking conclusions.”

  Except, my days at DV rewired my brain, and I can’t help but suspect what this “bicycling” accident actually means. And she was thirteen when it happened . . .

  I haven’t even had a drop of alcohol and I feel like barfing all over the place.

  Jesus fuck, get it together, Maverick, I chastise myself as I scrub a hand down my face and take a deep breath. If there’s any hope of me making it through the remainder of her records, I need to stop this ridiculous jumping to conclusions bullshit, regardless of my raging gut.

  Hand back on the mouse, I continue scrolling and, unfortunately for me, that one occurence wasn’t the worst of it. Every inch downward only makes me sicker. I try my damnedest to ignore the turmoil wreaking havoc in my stomach, but the jackhammering in my chest?

  It’s impossible.

  The shit I’m seeing . . .

  Consistent bruising, bite marks, scratches, behavioral changes, etc, etc. It goes on, and on, and on.

  Ironically matches some of Elon’s file, too, my mental voice suggests—and that’s when the world around me begins to give way.

  I’m left breathless. Bile rushes up my throat as sweat beads at my temples. No. No, no, no. It can’t be, it just can’t.

  And yet, it is. A cross reference into Elon’s file confirms it. The dates all match. He was treated for injuries on ninety-percent of the same days as Kiera. It’s all there. Everything.

  “No!” I roar, slamming my hands on the desk and pushing onto my feet.

  I’m going to be fucking sick. It all makes sense now. Perfect, despicable sense. His soulless, detached stare the night I met Kiera. Her lifeless, guarded demeanor when I bumped into them at the Boston Harbor Hotel. Their bizzare altercation the morning of the press conference.

  Pacing the space before my desk, I inhale breath after deep breath to settle myself.

  Five seconds.

  Ten.

  Fifteen.

  But the overwhelming feeling doesn’t dissipate even a smidge.

  You need a drink, my demons insist, shooting my hands into my hair. “No, I don’t!” I’m fisting the strands with such force, I actually wince from the pain.

  It’s welcome, though, preferable to the despair clawing at my heart.

  How could this happen? Do their parents know? Did Digby know, or did he truly believe what’s written in their records?

  Or am I still jumping to conclusions, my feelings for her warping me, feeding this delirious sense of panic?

  Questions, I have so many questions. One too many for my brain to handle at the moment. My girl . . . My poor girl might’ve been the victim of—

  No. It can’t be. He’s her fucking brother, for God’s sake.

  A brother that stares at her as if he owns her.

  Oh, Jesus. Lord. Please let me be wrong. Please—

  Ring! Ring! Rinnnnggg!

  I freeze in place at the incessant ringing of my doorbell.

  Who in God’s name could it be? I don’t ever have company, don’t mingle with my neighbors. Unless it’s—

  “Ruby,” I mutter.

  Bet you twenty bucks she went after Nathaniel again and is resorting to showing up my place, rather than sending a text she knows will go unanswered.

  I stomp over to my intercom and press down on the “talk” button long enough to snap, “I’m letting you up but swear to God, we’re discussing this bullshit”, then I press the button to open t
he downstairs door.

  In the midst of pacing in front of my condo door, I mentally talk myself through ignoring the feeling in my chest. Pushing it all back and hiding it from Ruby long enough to deal with her once and for all.

  I do agree something’s up with Nathaniel, but whatever it is, it isn’t more important than this fucking case!

  Isn’t more important than Kiera, you mean.

  Kiera. My Kiera. Fuck! It would make so much sickening sense. That instability I’ve seen in her gaze. The bone-deep pain she works so hard to hide—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Ruby.

  “If you even say Blackstone’s name, I’m going to—” Without stealing a peek through the peephole, I throw open door fully expecting it to be my partner.

  But it’s not.

  “Kiera?” My voice raises several octaves in shock.

  Out in the hallway, with the moonlight pouring in through the windows, my girl stares at me with those very eyes I just described.

  Aching. Stark. Pleading.

  And without me asking a single question, without her saying a single word, that repulsive suspicion is solidified, forever changing my world.

  Forever altering my very Catholic soul.

  I knew deep down, the moment I met her, that she would change me. That she would most likely finish leading me down the road of my own spiritual darkness.

  I was right.

  The shift within me is palpable, a vengeful rage that instantly permeates every atom of my being. Hand shaking against the door, I swallow the acrid lump in my throat, hating that I even have to ask for this confirmation of what I already know. “Kiera—”

  “I need you right now.” She’s trembling even harder than I am, small hands fisted at her sides, seeming so small and vulnerable in that black trench coat. “Please.”

  Questions are going to have to wait, as much as I hate it. I’ve never seen her like this. Never even thought it possible. “Anything. Anything you need, baby.”

  “You. No thinking. Just feeling. I need to feel you.” With that she steps fully into my apartment, a single tear trekking down her cheek, and throws herself into my arms.

  To be continued . . .

  “Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe.” - Proverbs 29:25

  Securing her in my hold, I stand there, rigid, unsure of what to do. Between her showing up in the middle of me having what some would consider a mental breakdown, and that harrowing information still floating around at the forefront of my mind, I’m merely hanging in the balance of sanity and depravity.

  What’s quite clear and blaring like a warning siren, though, is the fact that she knows where I live. I remember mentioning what neighborhood I resided in, but I never gave her my address.

  Or did I? Fuck I can’t remember.

  Especially as Kiera locks her arms around me tighter and tilts her head back. Our stares collide instantly and, once again, I’m met with such fragile emptiness, a hollowness so cold and lifeless, my entire body breaks out in goosebumps.

  “Mav,” she whispers, almost beseechingly. “Kiss me, please.”

  Despite all the questions I have, I can’t deny her. The need to protect her, to liberate her from whatever demons possess her—even if it’ll be a brief reprieve—is too strong to ignore.

  Hands cupping her face, I dip my head to her level and fuse our lips together. Kiera hums appreciatively. She sighs in relief, too, and the longer I kiss her, the more she falls lax against me.

  In a blink, I scoop her up and maneuver my way through the apartment, never once breaking the languid momentum of our kiss. I couldn’t even if I tried. She’s fisting my hair much too tight for me to get away.

  It’s almost like she needs me to breathe, like I’m the only thing keeping her together at this very moment. The notion should alarm me but, unfortunately for me, it’s a piece of the puzzle I won’t realize until it’s too late.

  When my shins hit the edge of the bed, I lay her down like a fragile doll and settle myself between her legs. Still, our mouths don’t cease their sensual dance. In fact, the pace increases. Her tongue lashes out to duel with mine, delving greedily, needily.

  “Take your clothes off, baby. I need to feel you,” Kiera breathes against my lips.

  Once again, I don’t deny her.

  I don’t hesitate.

  It’s ridiculous, should be impossible, how she can override my concerns and engage my desire like this.

  First goes my shirt, then my pants. All the while, she’s stripping beneath me, too, until she’s left in nothing but another mouth-watering set. This one isn’t as extravagant, no fancy garter belt or stockings to mess with, but holy fuck, the effect that simple white lace seems to have on me right now.

  Mine, she’s mi—

  Is she really, though? What if she was wearing this with every man she—

  “So beautiful,” I blurt out, hellbent on blocking out those tormenting whispers. “You’re so beautiful.” I’ve never been a possessive man and it doesn’t make sense how I’m losing my shit this bad now.

  Kiera smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s brief, too, fleeting, gone as quickly as it came. “Shhh”—she sets a finger to my lips—“no talking, remember? Just kiss me, make me feel good. I need it.”

  Wrong. This is all so off. Yet it feels too good not to get lost in it. Too good to deny her or the raging hunger to own every part of her. “You need it or you need me?”

  “Both, always both.” She drags me back down to her lips, kissing me, writhing under me, wet cunt against my aching dick.

  I kiss her back, tearing at her panties, and even as I do, those thoughts won’t stop hounding me.

  They won’t leave me be.

  “Ruptured hymen due to bicycling accident.”

  Elon glaring at me down the hall.

  The way he grabbed her and dragged her away from me at that event.

  His hands cupping her face across the street from command, eyes shining with a level of emotion I would’ve never thought him capable of.

  Gasping under the onslaught, I tear my lips away, forehead on hers—

  Kiera grabs my erection, that somehow hasn’t subsided one fucking bit, and slides it straight into the tight, warm heaven of her cunt.

  My back curls, lips parting on a short shout.

  She arches under me, giving me a part sigh, part moan, the relief in her expression opening a whole new chasm in me. “Oh yes, Maverick. That’s what I need. You. Only you.”

  My heart shatters at that last part.

  What it could possibly mean.

  Shoving my arms under her legs, I split her wider and drag her down the bed, cock embedded in her. Once I can brace my feet on the floor again, I adjust my hold, keeping her legs over my arms and my hands flat on the bed. “Hold on, baby. Hold on. I’m about to give you what you need.”

  Her hands slide down my back, nails sinking into the back of my shoulders. “Yes. Please.” Those beautiful eyes shimmer up at me.

  Jaw gritted, I set an instant, vicious rhythm, taking us from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. The sounds of skin slapping, of her wet pussy taking me, are nearly as loud as her sexy groans. The pleasure is just as intense as ever, just as consuming.

  And it’s doing nothing to ease the sensation in my chest.

  The thoughts that won’t leave me alone.

  He stares at her like . . . like . . .

  Kiera’s legs twitch in my grip, back arching off the bed. “Holy fuck, Maverick. I missed this. Missed you.”

  I watch her eyes roll back, sweat pouring down the side of my face. “Missed you, too. You’re all I think about. All I worry about.” It’s true. As much as this case and catching the killer fixates me, she’s become the axis of my mind.

  The center of every concern.

  Her eyes snap open, finding my gaze. The space between her brows is scrunched from the pleasure, yet there’s no hiding the anxiety I’m see
ing. “W—worry? What . . . what do you—oh God, right there. Give it to me right there!”

  Instead, I pause on purpose, throbbing into the deepest part of her. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, damn you.” I shouldn’t want her to tell me these things now, while we’re intimately connected this way, but it’s too important to ignore. Too tragic to push aside simply because her pussy is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.

  “I gave you my word, baby. Promised you I’d keep this to ourselves. Your secret is safe with me. Until you feel comfortable with the world knowing about us, I won’t tell a soul.”

  Her response leaves me speechless. I literally don’t know how to answer. Either she thinks she’s playing me for a fool or she truly doesn’t suspect that I’ve had a peek at her past. My heart wants me to believe the latter, that she’s as invested in protecting our relationship as I am.

  My gut screams she knows, that she can feel my suspicions. The way anxiety rolls off her, how her eyebrows are still very much cinched together as she regards me . . . it makes sense.

  So much sense.

  But I can’t call her out on it.

  I want to, believe me. Want her to tell me everything, but I can’t. Fact of the matter is, it is too tragic, and if it is her truth, this hellish reality she’s had to live, it’s not something she’s going to be willing to discuss at this moment.

  Especially now, when I’m inside her.

  Her pussy clenches around me as if in agreement, forcing a hiss between my teeth. I nearly drop over her like dead weight and settle onto my arms. My lips hover inches from her own, hips rolling of their own accord.

  “I know. I’m just concerned we’ll still be caught somehow. The calls, the texts . . . We’re leaving behind a papertrail,” I lie.

  Well, it’s not a total lie.

  Apple’s privacy encryption is a major matter of contention for the government, something that’s been proven nearly impossible to bypass when necessary, but there’s always a chance.