Page 50 of Flint’s Strike

Voicemail. Of course.

“Detective Mallon, this is Captain Parker Elmore with the Texas Ranger Division. I’m conducting a review of your investigation into the John Doe recovered from the Burnet Road warehouse. Case number 89323-1.” The fingers of my left hand curl so hard, my nails dig into my palm, but I keep my voice level. “I’d appreciate a return call at your earliest convenience. I have several questions after reviewing the medical examiner’s report.”

I hang up, sit back in my chair, and close my eyes.

Questions. Like how do duct tape residue, a chipped tooth, defensive trace evidence, and obvious signs of assault lead to the conclusion that a drunk man fell down some stairs?

The same way he thought Grace went out for a run and just decided to leave her husband, her dog, and her whole damn life behind.

I remember AJ ranting about this idjit. About how he sneered when he suggested Grace didn’t want to be found. AJ wanted to punch that smug look off of his face.

Grace deserved better than Mallon.

Roger Haight deserved better.

The whole damn city of Austin deserves better.

I shove back from my desk before I decide to give Mallon’s entire squad the same education I got from the medical examiner’s report.

By the time I reach the hall, I’m mentally drafting my speech to Mallon’s lieutenant. But the opening dies an abrupt death the moment I slam into Eliot rounding the corner.

He braces me, an arm around my waist, keeping me upright when my left leg wants to buckle. I press a hand to his chest, the rapid beat of his heart fierce under my palm.

The world around us doesn’t stop. Voices from the bullpen. Phones ringing. The clunk of a soda landing in the vending machine.

But in the space between us, nothing moves. Eliot’s arm stays around my waist, his hold firm enough to keep me upright, but guarded. Like he’s afraid to ask for more than that.

His heart skips a beat, muscles shift under my palm, tiny lines crease at the corners of his eyes, then melt away.

I should step back. Apologize. Stop this—whatever this is—before it can pull me under.

I don’t.

“Parker.” The low, rough tone sends a rush of desire straight to my core.

My fingers curl against his shirt. His breath catches, a half formed sound escaping before he forces himself to still.

Our eyes lock. His hand stays at my waist, but it feels less like support now. My body is buzzing, aware of exactly where we’re touching and what happens next if I don’t step away.

His gaze drops to my lips. “Tell me to stop,” he grits out.

I should. I’m at work. We’re at work. But I want this. I need this.

“No.”

“No?” The crease between his brows deepens. “Gonna need more than that.”

“Eliot, if you don’t kiss me right the fuck now⁠—”

His lips crash into mine, his fingertips skating over my cheek before curling around the back of my neck.

The kiss isn’t gentle. Eliot kisses like I’m his oxygen. My knees want to quit, but he walks me back until my shoulders find the wall.

I slide my free hand over his shoulder, fingers curling in the wavy hair at his nape.

He makes a sound low in his throat, then tilts his head, his tongue tangling with mine. The kiss is slower now. Gentler. Deeper. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I feel that simple contact everywhere.

Tugging him closer, I take control. The angle, the pressure, the way I can’t let go even if I wanted to. Until the basic need for oxygen forces us apart.