I couldn't concentrate.
Three hours I'd been sitting at my kitchen table, case files spread across the surface like tarot cards predicting disaster, and all I could think about was the way Kane had said my name. Like it hurt him. Like it was something precious he wasn't allowed to have.
Be careful.
The memory of his desperate plea sent heat spiraling through my core for the hundredth time today. I shifted in my chair, pressing my thighs together against the persistent ache that hadn't left me since walking out of that courthouse.
This was insane. I was a professional woman, not some lovesick teenager obsessing over her first crush. Kane Drax was my client—a criminal accused of sexual assault—and I was supposed to be preparing his defense, not fantasizing about his hands on my body.
But God, the way he'd looked at me. Like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in a conservative suit.
I forced myself to focus on Victoria's statement, reading through her accusations with growing skepticism. Her timeline didn't match the witness reports. She claimed Kane had followed her to a private room around midnight, but the bartender's statement put him at his table until at least 12:30, surrounded by his crew.
Someone was lying, and it wasn't hard to guess who.
My phone buzzed with a text from Sofia: How's the mysterious client? Still thinking about Mr. Tall, Dark & Dangerous?with a smirking devil face
If only she knew.
I'd been thinking about Kane since the moment I'd left that interview room. Thinking about the electricity that had shot between us when I'd touched the door. The way his voice had roughened when he'd warned me away. The desperate hunger I'd glimpsed before he'd shuttered his expression.
What would have happened if I'd walked back to his corner that night?
The thought was dangerous. Intoxicating.
My hand drifted to my throat as if pulled by an invisible thread, imagining Kane's fingers there instead—strong, unyielding, commanding. Would he have been gentle, coaxing? Or would he have claimed me with the same ruthless dominance I'd watched him unleash on the brunette?
Heat coiled low in my belly, spreading molten and relentless until it pooled between my thighs. The memory looped through my head: Kane's hands gripping her waist, guiding her every movement while she writhed against him like her sanity depended on it. And that sound he'd made—that guttural growl, not quite human—when she kissed him with tongue and teeth like she wanted to devour him whole.
I wanted to make him sound like that.
The realization hit like lightning, sharp and impossible to ignore. My body moved before my mind could stop it. My hand slid beneath the waistband of my yoga pants, finding the slick heat of my own need already waiting for me.
Kane.
Just his name in my head was enough to make my pulse stutter. I pictured his voice saying mine, rough and low, whispering Calla like a command only I could obey. My fingers brushed against my slick folds, circling with the same rhythm I'd watched that brunette grind out against his lap.
But in my fantasy, it wasn't my hand. It was his. His rough, calloused fingers—stronger, firmer, far less forgiving—working me with practiced precision. He'd know every place to touch, every spot to press, every way to drag out the pleading he craved.
"Please," I gasped into the silence of my apartment, my other hand gripping the table edge so hard my knuckles ached.
In my mind, Kane's mouth was at my throat, hot breath trailing fire down to my chest. His teeth grazing, his lips claiming. His hand holding me open while his fingers drove me higher, deeper, faster. He wouldn't stop until I was undone, until I shattered against him. He'd want it all. Demand it all. And I'd give it, because he would leave me no choice.
You're mine, Calla. Say it.
The phantom command vibrated through me, as real as if his lips brushed my ear. My body clenched around my own fingers like he was really there, pulling the sounds from me that I swore I'd never make.
Say you're mine.
"I'm yours," I cried out, the words torn from my throat as release ripped through me. My back arched, my body convulsing with wave after relentless wave of pleasure. His name spilled from my lips like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth that had ever mattered.
And when the last shudder passed, I collapsed against the chair, breathless, trembling, every nerve still singing with the echo of him. Kane wasn't here. But God, it felt like he had been.
For a moment, I floated in that post-orgasmic haze where nothing mattered except the satisfaction thrumming through my veins.
Then reality crashed back.
I was sitting in my kitchen, hand still buried in my pants, having just masturbated to fantasies of my client. My criminal client. The man accused of sexual assault who I was supposed to be defending with professional objectivity.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered, yanking my hand away like I'd been burned.
What was wrong with me? I'd built my career on logic, on evidence, on maintaining appropriate boundaries. I didn't lose control. I didn't let emotion cloud my judgment. And I certainly didn't get off thinking about dangerous men who warned me away for my own good.
But the evidence was literally on my fingers, and the satisfied ache between my legs made it impossible to pretend this was just professional curiosity.
I was in trouble. Deep, dangerous trouble that had nothing to do with Kane's legal case and everything to do with the way he made me feel like a woman instead of just a lawyer.
My phone rang, shattering the guilty silence.
Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but years of legal training had taught me that important calls often came from unexpected sources.
"Calla Reyes."
"Ms. Reyes." The voice was cultured, refined, with the kind of old-money accent that spoke of boarding schools and trust funds. "I believe you're representing Kane Drax."
Ice formed in my veins despite the lingering heat in my body. "Who is this?"
"A concerned citizen with advice for a promising young attorney." The man's tone was conversational, but there was steel beneath the silk. "Mr. Drax is a dangerous man with dangerous enemies. It would be… unfortunate if an ambitious lawyer found herself caught in the crossfire."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's practical advice. Drop the case, Ms. Reyes. There are other clients, other opportunities. Ones that won't end with you following in your mother's footsteps."
The mention of my mother hit like a physical blow. "What do you know about my mother?"
"I know Elena Reyes thought she was untouchable too. Right up until she wasn't." The man's chuckle was soft, almost gentle. "Car accidents happen so easily in this city. Especially to lawyers who don't know when to stop digging."
The line went dead.
I sat there staring at my phone, my earlier satisfaction replaced by something cold and sharp. Someone was watching me. Threatening me. Using my mother's memory as a weapon.
They'd made a mistake.
My hands shook as I gathered the scattered case files, but it wasn't fear making them tremble. It was rage. Pure, clean fury at whoever thought they could intimidate me into abandoning a client.
They didn't know me very well.
I'd built my career on impossible cases, on fighting for people the system wanted to forget. I wasn't about to start backing down now, especially not for some anonymous coward who hid behind veiled threats.
But as I locked my apartment door and checked the windows twice before bed, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
Whatever this case really was, it was bigger than Victoria's wounded pride. Bigger than Kane's criminal record.
And somehow, it was connected to secrets that had gotten my mother killed.