Free Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) by Naima Simone Page B

flood. He stared at his office and at Aslyn through a crimson film. She sat in front of his desk, fingers clenched, trying—and failing—not to betray her fear. The charade only notched the mercury level on his temperature higher.
    The stalker had contacted her last night.
    With the voyeurism, photos, and phone call, Chay could no longer entertain the possibility of this being a bored teenage kid or run-of-the-mill Peeping Tom. No, as Aslyn had relayed the caller’s conversation, especially the ominous promise at the end, Chay acknowledged lightning had indeed struck twice. Another sick bastard had made her the target for his obsessed, twisted desires.
    And Chay had left her.
    He’d run away from her—from the voracious hunger she stirred in him—and left her vulnerable. And scared. Vulnerable, scared, and alone.
    Leaning back in his office chair, he inhaled and drew his cold but familiar shield around him. It was fractured, but it held. For now.
    “Rafe has your phone now,” he said, the calm of his voice belying the rage still simmering in his gut. “He’s—” His own cell, set to vibrate, hummed against his desk. He flicked a glance down and noted the number on the caller ID screen. Dr. Hayes’ office. The phone fell silent, the call forwarding to voicemail. His mouth flattened. He had a session scheduled for that afternoon, and the therapist’s office had probably called to confirm the appointment. Fuck .
    Why hadn’t the judge just let him serve out his five years’ probation without the mandated therapy? Shit, the murder had occurred twenty damn years ago. He’d learned to cope, to survive, on his own. In all that time, he’d grown to become an upstanding citizen who paid his taxes, owned his own home and security firm with Rafe. What the hell could counseling accomplish? Get in touch with his emotions? He could’ve saved Boston taxpayers a shitload of money in that case. Yeah, he had feelings. But he wanted far from them. Let those motherfuckers stay buried.
    Just like they’d buried that bastard Richard Pierce.
    He ground his finger and thumb into his eyes, rubbing hard.
    Aslyn shot to her feet and paced away from the desk. On the return trip, she paused, her arms locked around her torso. “What? Is something wrong?”
    “No,” he said abruptly. “Anyway, Rafe’s uploading an app that will allow us to trace the call next time this guy contacts you.”
    “Even though the ID shows ‘unknown’?” Cautious hope brightened her gray eyes.
    He nodded. “It’s a project Rafe has been working on. We’ve used the app a couple of times before now, and it’s worked. If the caller is using a burner, we’ll only be able to trace the number and actual phone to the batch it originated from. But still, using that information, we can track down the state it was shipped to as well as the store it was sold to. And maybe we’ll be able to pull security footage if the store has cameras.”
    “Okay,” she murmured, tightening her self-embrace.
    Exhaustion clung to her. It paled her drawn face, darkened the fragile skin under her tired eyes. He rose, intent on going to her, cupping the nape of her neck, and pulling her against his body. Offering her rest. Or whatever she needed from him.
    But he didn’t move. Didn’t cross those few feet. Didn’t dare touch her. Last night more than proved that would be a mistake. He craved her too much.
    Fantasies of fucking her had dogged him home, into his bed, and into the darkest hours of the night. Exactly how he’d described to her. His warning had backfired and tortured him with vision after erotic, vivid vision of his mouth on her breasts, sucking her nipples, tracing the shallow indentation of her navel, licking the swollen, wet folds of her pussy. His dick hardened, lengthened, and he gritted his teeth against the throbbing.
    What kind of asshole did it make him that she stood trembling from fear and fatigue in his office and he wanted nothing more than to