“Oh, get the fuck out of my head already!”

“Excuse me?” The driver looked up into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowed.

“Sorry, talking to myself.”

The man frowned. “If you’re on drugs right now, I’m putting you out of my car. I’m not dealing with that shit again,” he muttered.

I groaned inwardly and apologized profusely until he stopped glaring. Great, I was starting to make people think I was crazy. Maybe I was losing my mind because how else had I ended up in this situation? From tracking Enzo Vitale to taking his cock, when had I decided that was a good decision?

Get him out of your head. That was the first and last time that’s going to happen.

I shoved all thoughts of Enzo Vitale far, far away from me as I jogged to my car. Time was ticking by, and I needed to focus. I parked haphazardly, rushing into my apartment after I glanced at the time on my phone. I pulled on my uniform, scratched my cat Penelope behind his perfect ears, fed him, and ran out of my place like my ass was on fire.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the precinct. I clocked in and climbed into the passenger seat of my squad car, panting. Rourke glanced over, his dark brow raised as he looked me up and down. I shut my door and stared right back at him.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re late.”

I groaned. “Don’t start. I had a late night.”

Rourke grunted. “I can see that. There’s a mark.” He pointed to his neck with his pen. “Right there.”

I stared at him, horrified, for all of one second before I snatched up my phone and stared at my reflection in the camera. He was right. It wasn’t a hickey or anything like that, but a red line that stood out against my skin. It was right where Enzo’s arm had wound around my throat, those suffocating, terrifying moments when I thought he was going to kill me, only for him to release and fuck the life out of me. My cock twitched again.

Down, boy.

“Where did you go last night?” Rourke asked, making me shut off my phone and glance at him. “I know you came back here after I told you to take your ass home.”

“There was no reason for me to go— Ah! You son of a bitch,” I ground out through clenched teeth as Rourke’s fist slammed into my shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “Idiot.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I shot back. “I can still do my job.”

“Until someone grabs your damn arm the wrong way, and you piss yourself in pain and end up with a bullet in your head.”

Rourke was a good friend and a great partner, but sometimes I wanted to slap him. He was so uptight and rigid when he wanted to be.

“I’m fine,” I stressed. “Yes, it hurts, but I can work through the pain if I really need to. Okay?”