Page 64 of Mastered By Desire

I want to laugh. He hasn’t treated me as his superior since the night of Leah’s auction.

Instead I say, “Someone slashed her tires and sent her threatening texts.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. He glowers. Finally, he says, “What kind of texts?”

“Photographs of her in the library, it appears. They were taken without her knowledge. They were accompanied by a message apologizing for her car’s tires and saying next time it will be worse.”

“The fuck?” Dmitri frowns. “Who sent it?”

“The number was blocked.”

“I’ll take her to the police station in the morning,” Dmitri says.

“Are you sure she wants that?” I keep my voice level. “She seems upset with you.”

“I’ll fix it.” He starts to shut the door but pauses. “Thanks for bringing her home.”

Home. Does Leah view it as her home? Dmitri seems to feel she belongs here.

I turn around and walk back to my car before he can slam the door in my face.

If I weren’t so concerned about Leah’s safety, I’d be delighted by his jealous aggression.

Dmitri

Leah didn’t talk to me last night. She curled up on the couch and went to sleep immediately. Or, she pretended to go to sleep immediately. I’m pretty sure she was awake for hours, just like me.

In the morning, we gulp down some coffee and I drive her to the police station.

“Are you ready to talk about things?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“Are you still going to move out?”

“Yeah. As soon as I get my car fixed.”

Why does she have to be so stubborn?

At the station, the police officers are skeptical. They don’t want to talk to Leah until they learn Mick was her ex-boyfriend.

“Yeah, the murdered guy,” I say in a loud voice. “Ongoing investigation, right? Can you help her now?”

“I should’ve called Gage.” Leah elbows me in the side. “You’re going to get yourself arrested.”

I don’t care if I’m arrested. They need to fucking do something. But now they’re taking her seriously, and after a minute, someone walks us back to an open office area, filled with messy desks.

“Wentz,” the uniformed officer says.

A man looks up. He has short, dark-red hair. His eyes narrow when he sees Leah and me, but he stands up and gestures us forward.

“Miss Shreve, how can I help you?”

“Someone is threatening me.” She hesitates in front of his desk, which is covered in dangerously high stacks of papers and manila folders. “They slashed my tires and sent me some texts.”

Wentz grimaces. “Well, let’s see what’s what. May I look at the texts?”

Leah hands over her phone and explains the damage to her car—four slashed tires.