Chapter 3 3

“Anything else I need to know?” I asked, keeping my tone clipped.

Cyne’s eyes, still sharp, still assessing, lingered on me for a moment. Then he stood, stretching, and for just an instant, I felt the gravity of him: the sheer presence that seemed to shift the air around him. It wasn’t warmth, exactly, but it was magnetic. My chest tightened for no good reason, and I almost cursed the feeling under my breath.

“Stay alert,” he said finally. “You’re in my world now, and my world… isn’t forgiving.”

At the warning, a small shiver worked its way down my spine, and giving a quick nod, I stated, “Got it.”

Fingers curling where they rested on the folder, the action grounded me, keeping me from looking back at him again. But I couldn’t stop my eyes from flicking to the edge of his desk, the lines of his jacket, the way he moved with purpose. My brain shouted focus, but other parts of me… didn’t entirely agree.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low, almost approving, then standing, he began moving about the room, turning off lights, at the same time stating, “Go through your notes. Check your facts. Start making sense of the apartment, the notebook, the people listed.”

Afterward, holding the door to the outside open for me, he murmured almost absently, “And I’ll see you in the morning.”

I gathered my things, shoulders stiff, my libido still stubbornly aware of him behind me, and stepped out into the rain. The city smelled of wet asphalt and coffee again, and the streets glistened under streetlights blurred by mist. Pulling Cyne’s borrowed jacket tighter around me, I pressed the folder against my chest as I tried to convince myself that the tight pull in my stomach was just hunger…but I knew better…I knew what the pull was…attracttion; I was attracted to my boss.

Minutes later, as I walked back to Pioneer Square, toward the bar where the missing woman had last been seen, I scolded under my breath: “Dammit, how can I want to jump a man I barely know?” But my inner voice didn’t have an answer.

~~

The next morning, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle, gray light spilling over the city like a thin veil. My cardboard box smelled faintly of wet paper. Not exactly luxury accommodations, but it was home until I could do better.

Stirring, I groaned, stretching stiff muscles, when a shadow fell across my box. I froze mid-yawn, blinking against the soft morning light.

“What the ever loving fuck?” Cyne’s voice cut through the drizzle, low and sharp, carrying that calm authority that made my stomach do something I’d rather ignore.

I blinked at him, half sitting up, hair plastered to my face, jacket damp, and probably looking like a drowned raccoon. “Morning,” I said, voice rough from sleep.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. Just stood there, coat collar turned up, hands shoved into pockets, eyes scanning me like he was cataloging every flaw, every line of tension in my body. His expression didn’t change. “What the hell is this?” he asked, gesturing toward my box.

“Umm…” I trailed off, suddenly realizing the stupidity of propping my box against the wall outside his business.

Cyne’s eyes narrowed as he took in the box, the damp sweatshirt, the empty coffee cup I’d used as a makeshift nightstand. His voice was deceptively calm when he finally asked. “You’ve been sleeping here?”

I swallowed hard, tugging the jacket tighter around myself. “Technically… yes?”

“Technically?” His tone sharpened. “Sponsor, this is a goddamn alley behind my office.”

“Yeah,” I said weakly, “I noticed. Convenient, right? Cuts down on commute time.”

The look he gave me could’ve stripped paint. “Don’t get cute. You’ve been working for me for one day, and you somehow forgot to mention you’re homeless?”

I bristled, dragging myself to my feet, trying not to look as small as I felt. “I didn’t think it mattered. You said you needed results, not my life story.”

He exhaled slowly, but it wasn’t relief…it was restraint. “It matters,” he said, his voice dropping low, the words clipped and deliberate. “Because it tells me you’re starving, sleep-deprived, and one bad night away from getting yourself killed. You walk into crime scenes half-dead and think I won’t notice?”

My throat tightened, anger and shame tangling in my chest. “I can handle myself.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You can survive yourself. That’s different.”

The rain pattered harder for a moment, a cold rhythm between us. His presence filled the narrow alley, quiet but unshakable. I hated that he made sense. I hated that I wanted to look away and couldn’t.

Cyne’s voice softened…just barely. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To claw your way through every day because the alternative is worse?” His gaze held mine, steady and too clear. “But you don’t get points for suffering in silence, Sponsor. You get dead.”

The words hit like a slap. I wanted to tell him to back off, to mind his own business, but I was his business now. And the worst part was, a tiny, traitorous part of me was grateful he cared enough to be angry.

I crossed my arms, forcing my tone light. “You’re really bad at pep talks, you know that?”

His jaw flexed, but a faint spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. “I’m not here to pep you up. I’m here to make sure you don’t end up another file on my desk.”

Silence stretched between us, thick as the rain. I dropped my gaze first, staring at the puddles forming around my shoes. “Look,” I said finally, voice low, “I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just… didn’t want to seem like a charity case.”

He studied me for a long, unreadable moment before replying. “You’re not a charity case. You’re my responsibility now.”

That startled me more than the anger had. “Your what?”

“My responsibility,” he repeated evenly. “You work under my name, under my roof. That means you don’t sleep in an alley like a stray. You’ll stay in the back office for now.”

I blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”

He didn’t even blink. “Do I look like I joke?”

“Never,” I muttered. “That’s half the problem.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost human. “You’ve got ten minutes to pack up whatever you call luggage and meet me inside.”

“Fine,” I said, trying for nonchalance but failing. “But for the record, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Ten minutes,” he cut in, turning away, voice cool again. “And Sponsor?”

I paused, halfway through trying to fold up my home. “Yeah?”

His gaze flicked back to me, sharp and unreadable under the rain. “Next time you keep something that important from me, don’t expect there not to be consequences.”