Murder brought us together. Only death can keep us apart.The Tormentor Calista belongs to me... she just doesn’t know it. The first time we met, I wanted her. The next time, I was obsessed. I watched her. I followed her. It only deepened my need to possess her. Once she's mine, I'm never letting her go.
The Target Hayden Bennett is a monster, in and out of the courtroom. Unfortunately, I need his help. What was supposed to be a simple transaction turns into something else. Something intense. He’s always there when I need him, but I don't know if trusting him is a good idea...
Once You're Mine is Book 1 in the Possessing Her Duet that ends on a cliffhanger. It contains explicit sexual content and a morally gray hero that's over the top jealous/possessive, a stalker who falls first, has Touch Her & Die energy, and is willing to do whatever it takes to have her. A complete list of trigger warnings can be found on the author's website.
Release date:
April 30, 2024
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
304
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The senator isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. There’s a satisfaction in this, yet it’s fleeting, similar to a flame that’s quickly put out. Dead and gone.
Like my victims.
Justice is a mistress that calls my name and pulls me into her embrace to fuck me. And leave me bereft. Empty. Wanting a closure I’ll never possess.
Rain falls in a light but steady stream, landing on every surface in the cemetery.
The grass.
The gravestones.
The faces of the mourners.
Precipitation collides with tears to stream down the cheeks of those viewing the casket. Sorrow is everywhere, permeating the atmosphere like a dense fog. I let it cover me, envelop me, bring me peace. It’s rare to feel this serenity. The funerals of my victims are one of the few places I experience this, which is why I always attend.
To complete the ritual…
End a life.
Give justice.
Begin again.
I sweep my gaze over the attendees, a sea of black amongst the green backdrop, an ink stain on an emerald field. They congregate, huddling together to provide and receive comfort, some weeping quietly while others sniffle loudly. All of them broken.
Except for one.
The very person who should be shattered stands tall. But not for lack of caring. No, she loves the deceased. Deeply. Each of her breaths is a challenge as if she’s being strangled, and she winces in pain every time her hazel eyes land on the mahogany casket.
Without a display of tears.
Not yet. But they all do eventually. Another part of the ritual I enjoy.
Although, I still can’t understand why people mourn evil. They should be relieved there’s one less murderous individual in the world. One less man who preys upon innocent women and children. I suspect it’s because they’re not aware of the vile acts their loved ones committed. If they did, they’d express fear, not sadness.
Calista Green is exquisite in her melancholy.
This woman is the perfect example of what a politician’s daughter should look like. Pristine and pressed clothes, flawless makeup, and her long, dark hair curled and piled atop her head in a way that accentuates the beautiful slope of her neck. What really sells the image is the string of pearls she wears, the ones she occasionally runs her fingers over to soothe herself.
As the only living relative, she’s my focus. Not because the woman’s young and attractive, although you’d have to be dead not to notice. Grave humor from me. How rare… and amusing.
Regardless of her beauty, Miss Green is the one I watch with bated breath, my chest rising and falling in time with hers, my body leaning forward whenever she moves. She’s the one I’m connected to at the moment.
There's poetry, a sharp irony in taking the life of the man who’s responsible for the vitality flowing through her veins. Making her heart beat. The subtle flickering of her pulse along her throat snatching my attention again and again.
Most women are delicate, in need of protection. But only in the physical sense. Emotionally, they are more intelligent, more in tune with the feelings that tend to dominate their lives.
The same ones I’ve destroyed within myself.
Specifically, the soft, tender ones: adoration and compassion. Whether that’s caring for another, or even love. Whatever the name, they lead to weakness. Which results in pain and suffering.
And the arrival of darker emotions.
These are the ones in which I indulge, the ones that dictate my actions and fuel my ambition. Frustration. Anger. Disgust. Even desire, if it’s through selfish acts; the gratification of it, both mentally and physically.
These things I understand and control, lest they take over me—as they try to do on occasion.
I’m not a perfect man. Only my intentions are.
The pastor asks everyone to bow their heads in prayer and they do. Except for me. And her.
Miss Green simply stares ahead, unblinking, her gaze sparkling with thought, her eyes becoming crystalized honey. I continue watching her. Scrutinizing her. The longer I do, the more piqued my interest becomes.
What is she thinking about?
And where the hell are the tears?
The petition to an unseen deity ends, and everyone lifts their heads. A middle-aged woman, the former manager for the Green household, covers her face with both hands. Her round frame shakes from the force of her sobs. Real or fabricated, I’m unsure.
Miss Green doesn’t stop to question the authenticity of the tears. The young woman immediately embraces the older one, her full, pink lips whispering words of comfort while patting the housekeeper until the woman gathers her composure.
The pastor gestures to the casket, proposing everyone say their good-byes. The first man to walk over is the family’s driver. He takes his cap in hand and bows his head. His mouth moves briefly, clearly a man of few words, and then he’s stepping back.
Before he can blend in with the crowd, the senator’s daughter walks up to him and takes his hand. She gives the man a smile—a sad one, but a smile nonetheless—and says something that has the driver’s shoulders straightening with pride. The interaction between them is familiar, comfortable.
I squint, not bothering to hide my skepticism. No one can see me at this distance, but I find myself wanting to get closer. It goes against my rules to get near my victim’s loved ones, so I don’t. However, rules don’t stifle my want. My need to examine things more in depth in order to gain understanding.
Miss Green perplexes me.
She is the person most devastated by the senator’s death, yet she’s the one offering comfort instead of receiving it. And not just to anyone, but the staff. People she shouldn’t acknowledge unless it’s with a task for them to carry out.
I’ve met many men and women who come from the upper class, and none of them have a personal relationship with those on their payroll. They believe it’s beneath them. A financial division that’s been around since money and status became prominent in human culture.
But not to Miss Green.
She treats each individual like a person of worth.
It’s confounding… and refreshing. If it’s real.
I don’t believe her to be sincere. A funeral is the perfect excuse for a woman to gain sympathy and attention. For her to shine in the spotlight and be adored for simply being. Perhaps this is why she hasn’t cried yet.
Miss Green is preparing her stage.
That is something I understand and have witnessed on numerous occasions. She’ll be no different than the others. Just like she wears those pearls, she’ll wear selfishness disguised as grief.
So, I wait.
My anticipation grows with every person who walks up to the casket. They leave shortly after, but not without the dutiful daughter greeting them farewell, a lily in her hand that she clutches like a lifeline. The rain falls harder and faster, scattering the mourners like a flock of ravens, the group quickly disappearing.
Until one person remains.
Miss Green stands there, a stoic expression etched in her features. Her hair, drenched by the rain, drips water onto her already soaked clothing. She doesn’t move for a long while, despite the storm, despite the lack of audience.
Her continued stillness draws me, pulls me toward her. I adjust the collar of my coat to shield my face and gradually make my way in her direction. To a passerby I look like someone visiting the deceased. On any other day, that would be true.
I have mourned.
Once.
My steps bring me close enough to see the woman’s bottom lip trembling, now tinged with blue due to the cold. Miss Green wraps her arms around her middle, flower still in hand, and sinks to the ground with a small cry of anguish.
Finally, the tears come.
She tilts her head back, her pale throat an offering, making my fingers twitch. Eyes shut and lips parted, the woman sobs. I don’t possess empathy, but if I did, I’d be gutted at hearing such a forlorn sound.
Even so, there's a strange tightness in my chest.
It intensifies the longer she cries, the more tears she sheds.
There is no audience, no performance to be had. Just a daughter mourning the loss of her parent. In private.
Miss Green waited until she was alone to properly grieve, a revelation I didn’t see coming. Her behavior is a deviation from the norm.
Disappointment surges along with confusion, and my brows furrow. For the first time, the joy I receive from funerals has vanished.
My satisfaction has been thwarted.
And replaced with an uncomfortable sensation that I refuse to name. Something I shouldn’t be capable of.
It’s there nonetheless.
Miss Green is the cause of this.
I run my gaze over the woman as she gets to her feet and slowly makes her way to the casket, grass and mud stains on her clothes and legs. Her perfect image is no more. The lily in her right hand shakes from the tremors wracking her body, dislodging raindrops that are quickly replaced by the storm. And her tears.
She brokenly whispers something I can’t make out and kisses the flower’s petals before placing it on the mahogany surface amongst the other blooms. Then she walks to the vehicle idling by the curb. I watch until she climbs inside and disappears from sight.
Then I head toward the casket. Peering down, I squint in disdain at the man hidden within, my lip curling. “You caused pain before and after your death. If I could kill you again, I would.”
Reaching out, I trail my fingers over the lily that Miss Green held so tightly, the soft texture how I imagine her skin would feel. I pick it up and press my lips to the petal where she did moments ago, inhaling deep. The fragrance of the bloom fills my nostrils, along with the scent of the woman who now invades my thoughts.
She’s a mystery
A problem.
One that I intend to solve and be rid of. No matter the cost. Or else the price I’ll pay will be my sanity—what little still remains.
Calista
“What’s the question every woman wants to be asked, at least once in her life?”
I stop wiping the counter and look at Harper like she’s lost her mind. Because she probably has. Everything that comes out of her mouth never ceases to amaze me. And usually has me stunned into silence while blushing profusely.
I steel myself and guess, knowing I have a 1% chance of being right. “‘Will you marry me?’”
My co-worker rolls her eyes. “I love you too, but no. Why can’t a man simply ask, ‘Do you want me to come over and eat your pussy till you come on my face?’”
“I think I’m having a stroke,” I wheeze.
She grins at me, her green eyes bright and her expression feral. “All I’m saying is, if a guy ever asks me that, I’d totally marry him. After sitting on his face.”
Harper gets me every time. I don’t know why I even try to maintain my composure, but I suppose it’s the way I was raised. You can’t be a senator’s daughter and not be aware of how you’re being viewed by the public.
At all times.
I lift my hand to tuck a loose tendril behind my ear, only to recall I braided my hair to keep it out of my face. Still needing the mental satisfaction that comes from managing my appearance, I lower my arm and run my fingers over the pearl necklace hidden under my t-shirt. The smooth, round shapes, familiar and uniform, have me breathing out slowly, my flustered state dissipating.
Harper turns at the sound of the door opening and greets the customer as if she didn’t just say something outrageous to me. “Hey there, Mr. Bailey. How’s it going today?”
The elderly man nods once, shuffles up to the counter, and plants his wrinkled hands on the surface. He stares up at the menu, his forehead creasing in thought. As if he doesn’t order the same thing every day. “I think I’ll have the blueberry muffin and a coffee. Black.”
Harper grabs a cup and scribbles his name on it. “Sure thing.”
I walk over to the display and slide the glass door open. After grabbing the largest muffin with a set of tongs, I put it in a bag and set it in front of the register. A few keystrokes later, I give Mr. Bailey his total. He hands me the necessary bills, and I arrange them in the till, all facing up with the serial numbers in the same direction.
“If these muffins weren’t the finest in the city, I swear I’d never come back here,” the man grumbles.
He’s not wrong. I think the pastries at the Sugar Cube are the best, and they’re the reason I haven’t starved to death. How can I when my boss lets me eat whatever I want when I’m clocked in?
“Here’s your change,” I say. “Have a good day.”
Then I pump hand sanitizer onto my palm and spread it all over my hands.
Money is disgusting. And I mean that in every way possible. That doesn’t stop me from needing it.
Mr. Bailey huffs and takes his items, heading to the corner seat, where today’s paper sits on the table. As it does every day. He settles in the chair and takes the newspaper, but not before shooting me a glance. After a curt nod to thank me, the man’s gaze leaves mine to absorb the ink on the page.
“So, where were we?” Harper asks.
I hold up my hands in mock surrender, the lemon scent from the sanitizer tickling my nostrils. “I don’t want to continue that conversation.”
“You’re lucky someone else just walked in,” she whispers. “Welcome to the Sugar Cube,” Harper says at a normal volume to the newcomer. “What can I get for you this fine morning?”
The man’s gaze zeroes in on me and I flag him down with a small wave. “He’s here for me,” I say to Harper.
“In what capacity?” She eyes the man without an ounce of shame, taking in his casual attire and blank expression. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Could be both.”
I blow out a breath of exasperation. “No, it isn’t. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s all good until the brunch rush.”
I remove my apron, signaling I’m on break, and wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. “Good morning, Mr. Calvin. Right this way please.”
The man follows me to the set of chairs that are furthest from Mr. Bailey. And Harper. She might be my best friend—my only friend—but the details of my father’s murder aren’t something I want to discuss with anyone. I can barely process the crime myself, and it’s been four weeks since I buried him. And hired this private investigator.
“Did you find anything new?” I ask, lowering my voice and leaning forward.
The man shakes his head. “This case is turning out to be more difficult than I expected. With your father being a high-profile politician, I knew there would be a lot to dig through to uncover the truth. However, everything’s been buried so deep I’m not sure I can find the person responsible for his death.”
My heart cracks, and the fractured pieces fall, hitting my ribcage before settling in my gut. “My father was the only family I had. I need to find out what happened to him. Please, help me bring his killer to justice.”
I blink back tears while the man scratches his chin. “Miss Green…” he begins.
“Call me Calista.” I force a smile. My father always said that in order to humanize yourself to people, you had to break down social barriers and make them see the flesh and blood person underneath. “We’ve been working together for several weeks now, and I really appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this so far.”
That “effort” has taken every single dime I own. My father’s name might’ve been cleared in court, but his debts haven’t. Between paying off his legal fees and hiring this man to look into his untimely demise, I’m one breath away from living on the streets.
Ironic, since I used to volunteer at a children’s shelter.
“There is one avenue of inquiry I could look into,” the man says, “but that would require you to retain my services for another month.”
I smooth my features, struggling to keep my panic from showing. “Last month’s payment wasn’t enough to cover this? Especially considering you haven’t discovered anything new?”
“Miss Green, I’m paid based on my time, not on results I have no control over.”
“I understand. Do you think I could pay you at the end of the month?” When his brows lift and his mouth thins, I hold out my hands in supplication. “I’ve already picked up more hours at this place, and I’ve applied for other jobs as well. I just need time to get the money. That’s all.”
The man fixes me with a look that has my spine straightening. “You’re aware of my policy,” he says. “Payment upfront. Non-negotiable.”
His sharp tone cuts me like flint, sparking my anger. I narrow my gaze. “How do I know for sure you’re actually searching for clues? Maybe you’re just taking my money and doing absolutely nothing.”
He gets to his feet. “Should you change your mind or obtain the necessary funds, you have my information. Goodbye, Miss Green.”
I stare up at him, torn between begging for his help and letting him walk away. In the end, I bite my lip and stay seated. I simply don’t have the money, and no amount of crying will change that. However, the idea of not making progress on my father’s murder has a sour feeling growing in my stomach.
Whoever killed my father took everything from me. Not just a loving parent, but my security, financial and physical. As well as my future.
Harper plops herself in the vacant chair across from me, her gaze clouded with worry. “That was definitely business, and not pleasure,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Do you want a cake pop? Those always seem to cheer you up.”
I shake my head.
“Damn,” she says, sucking in a breath. “Whatever you talked about must’ve been serious if you don’t want a cake pop. Did that asshole threaten you or something?”
I shake my head again. “He didn’t have the information I wanted, and I don't have enough money to continue hiring him.”
“A private investigator. Figures. He’s so cliché with the long trench coat and whatever.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “As if that’ll help him be a better detective.”
I give her a sad smile. “It’s the middle of winter and freezing outside. Most of the guys that come in here are wearing them.”
“You won’t change my mind. He’s a loser.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Forget him.”
“I’ll have to for now.”
If only I could ignore my guilt as well.
Hayden
I hate surprises.
They catch you off guard, force you to change your plans, and leave space for error. Not to mention the chaos that can follow. In my line of work, both personally and professionally, I can’t afford that, which is why I research things extensively.
Senator Green is a prime example of this.
By the time I was ready to end his life, I knew everything about him, down to the names of his staff members. And of course, his daughter.
Miss Green has taken her father’s place as the sole focal point in my mind.
I can’t stop thinking about her, recalling and dissecting her behavior in order to understand it. Unfortunately, even while knowing a lot about her, I’m no closer to comprehending why she’s different.
Or the reason her tears affected me.
I want to be rid of the problem, the confusion and lack of control she creates in my life. Except I won’t kill her because it goes against my code of ethics. However, invading her privacy doesn’t.
In the last month, I’ve uncovered everything there is to know about her. And during that time, it’s as though Calista Green has ceased to exist. She terminated all of her social media accounts, withdrew her enrollment in college, and her former residence is now owned by the bank. Without her having a cellphone, her digital footprint has shrunk and continues to disa. . .
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