The Rogue Alpha's Detective Mate

Beneath the surface

Cassandra Kane.

Sitting in the car, silence wrapped around them like a suffocating blanket, heavy and awkward. Cassandra sipped her cold brew, her fingers drumming lightly against the cup, the rhythmic tapping barely audible over the hum of the engine. The sunglasses perched on her nose shielded her eyes, but her gaze kept flicking toward Desmond, stealing glances at his chiseled profile. His strong jawline, the slight curve of his lips, and those eyes—amber, intense—threatened to undo her resolve. Why did he have to be so damn attractive? Of course, the one time the captain decided to assign her a partner, it had to be this hulking Adonis with a voice like velvet thunder.

"Is this about your current case?" Desmond's deep voice rumbled, pulling her from her musings. When the got into the unmarked police cruiser she made sure to plug in the destination in the gps system.

"Yeah," she sighed, turning her attention to the cityscape beyond the window. "I've seen a lot of messed up things, but this… Whoever did this needs to be brought to justice." The image of the victim flashed in her mind, the grotesque scene replaying in vivid detail.

Their victim, Stacy Morton, had been found in her apartment. Twenty-six years old, with long amber hair and piercing blue eyes that had been frozen in terror. Her slender frame had been meticulously staged in the center of the room, her arms splayed out like a twisted marionette. Her mouth was slightly agape, and her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, forever etched with the horror of her final moments. The room itself was pristine, almost unnaturally so, as if the killer had taken great care to clean up after themselves, save for the victim. No signs of struggle, no disarray. Just Stacy, a chilling centerpiece in a macabre tableau. She was dressed in a white sheer gown, almost virginal, her hair had been brushed and braided, resting along her shoulder. It was a stark contrast to the look of horror on her face and the gash out of her neck. The only hint of violence was the crimson stain on the carpet, spreading like a grotesque flower beneath her.

"We're going to talk to a competitor of hers," Cassandra flipped open her little notebook, the pages filled with her neat, looping handwriting. "A Mr. Dorian Voss. I've already talked with her friends, and her parents are deceased." She sighed, snapping the notebook shut.

She had done a lot in a week, but nothing stood out. The circumstances of Stacy's death nagged at her—something didn't fit. Was it a crime of passion? Unlikely, given the meticulous nature of the scene. Revenge? Perhaps, but it didn't seem right either. Her friends had only good things to say about her, and her coworkers described her as diligent and kind. Could it have been a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? No, that theory didn't hold water either; the staging was too deliberate, too personal. Deep down, Cassandra feared they were dealing with a serial killer. If that were the case, more bodies would inevitably follow.

"I looked through what you have," Desmond said, his tone thoughtful.

"And?" She turned to him, her expression guarded behind the dark lenses.

"I think you might be right." His honey-colored eyes met hers briefly before focusing back on the road. "This wasn't random. Whoever did this wanted us to find her like that. They wanted us to see their handiwork, to witness their... art. That sounds like a serial killer to me."

It was as if he had plucked the thoughts straight from her mind. Maybe, just maybe, having him as a partner wouldn't be so bad.

"Agreed," she murmured, turning her gaze back to the window, the city blurring past in shades of gray and steel.

The silence returned, more comfortable this time, filled with the soft strains of a distant song playing through the radio. Finally, they arrived at a towering building, the name "Skyline Strategies" emblazoned in steel letters. The sleek, modern facade loomed over them, a monolith of glass and steel.

Parking, they made their way inside. The lobby was all polished marble and chrome, exuding an air of cold, corporate efficiency.

"Skyline Strategies, how may I help you?" The receptionist, a perky blonde with a saccharine smile, greeted them. Her eyes locked onto Desmond, her smile widening as if Cassandra didn't exist.

I take it back. Having him as my partner is going to suck, Cassandra thought, suppressing an eye-roll.

"Detective Loupé," Desmond introduced himself, his tone professional but devoid of warmth. "This is my partner, Detective Kane. We're here to see Mr. Voss."

The receptionist picked up the phone, her voice becoming a soft, melodic coo as she informed Dorian Voss of their arrival. Hanging up, she turned back to Desmond, her smile even more flirtatious.

"He'll be right out. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?" She leaned forward slightly, her blouse gaping just enough to reveal the curve of her cleavage.

Seriously? Cassandra thought, clenching her jaw.

"No, we're fine," Cassandra said sharply, making the woman blink and finally acknowledge her presence.

"Excuse me, I—"

"Detectives, I apologize if I've kept you waiting." A smooth, cultured voice interrupted. A tall man in an impeccably tailored black suit approached them, his dark hair perfectly styled.

"Mr. Voss?" Desmond asked, stepping away from the receptionist's desk.

"The one and only." Dorian Voss smiled, his teeth white and perfect, a single dimple appearing on his right cheek. His dark brown eyes swept over Desmond before settling on Cassandra, lingering a fraction too long.

"Detective Kane," Cassandra introduced herself, extending a hand, which he shook briefly before turning to Desmond.

"Detective Loupé," Desmond nearly growled through clenched teeth.

Why was he behaving so weird? Cassandra thought.

"Come this way," Dorian gestured, leading them through a set of double doors into a spacious office.

The room was a testament to understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the glass tinted to provide privacy. A massive oak desk dominated one end, flanked by sleek monitors and neatly arranged files. A leather loveseat and matching chairs were arranged around a glass coffee table in the center.

"Please, have a seat," Dorian invited, indicating the loveseat.

Cassandra took one end, Desmond the other. Dorian perched on the edge of a chair, unbuttoning his jacket and draping it over the back. Rolling up his sleeves, he revealed a series of intricate tattoos that snaked up his forearms, the dark ink stark against his skin.

"How can I help you?" His gaze locked onto Cassandra, his tone polite but with an undercurrent of something else, something unsettling.

"Do you know Ms. Morton?" Cassandra asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to see how he would respond.

"Stacy? Yes," he said, his brow furrowing. "Is she in trouble?"

"What would you say your relationship with Ms. Morton was?" Desmond ask.

"Was?" Dorian raised a brow.

"Please answer the question," Cassandra stepped in her voice more gentle then Desmonds stern one.

"We work in the same industry," Dorian shrugged. "I know her through dealings and such," He vaguely supplied.

"That's all?" Cassandra didn't buy it. This man was clearly a ladies man, she could tell by the confident smirks and the way he openly checked her out with a look like he could have me if he wanted.

"We may have had a little fun here and there," He held his hands up a playful smirk on his face. "Is that a crime now for two consenting adults to f**k," He said crudely his eyes landing on Cassandra again.

"Where were you last Monday night between 12 and 2 AM?" Desmond interjected, his tone firm his jaw clenching.

"At home," Dorian replied smoothly.

"Was anyone with you?" Cassandra pressed, her pen poised over her notebook.

"Yes, a friend," he said, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

"Her name and contact information?" Desmond asked, his voice like a hammer driving in a nail.

Dorian hesitated, his smile faltering for a moment before he provided the details. "Melanie Walker, 917-345-9986. Am I in some kind of trouble? What happened to Stacy?"

"There was an incident," Cassandra skating around the truth, if he was innocent this new might be very upsetting to hear.

"Incident?" Dorian's looked even more confused and a little irritated. "What the hell is going on here?" He demanded standing up from her spot on the seat.

"She's dead," Desmond said bluntly.

Dorian's eyes widened, genuine shock flashing across his face. "W-what? How?"

"She was murdered," Cassandra said, her voice softer but no less firm.

"I—I need a moment," Dorian stammered, standing abruptly and retreating to a nearby bathroom. The sound of retching soon followed.

Well, this was going fan-f*****g-tastic.