Within These Walls

Chapter Six: The Precinct and the Punch

Nova Starling Quinn

I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent the rest of the night in front of my monitors, the adrenaline still humming in my veins like a live wire. My dress was a crumpled heap of blue silk on the floor, and I was back in my oversized hoodie, my fingers flying across the keys as I tried to track where Thorne’s sedan went after he bolted from the InterContinental.

Around 3:00 AM, my phone buzzed on the desk. A random number.

Unknown: If you’re out there digging tonight, go to bed. I have units patrolling his usual spots. Don't be a f*****g martyr.

I stared at the screen. I didn't need a detective's badge to know it was Dante. I didn't reply. I just leaned back, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The man was a massive, overbearing prick, but he was the only person in this city who actually knew why my heart felt like it was made of ash.

I watched the sun rise over the Atlantic, the sky turning a bruised shade of pink. I went through my morning ritual like a machine—long, agonizing stretches, a cold shower that made me gasp, and a breakfast of black coffee and a protein shake that tasted like cardboard.

As I pulled on a sharp, tailored blazer for work, I looked at the "Unknown" text again. I hit Save Contact. I named him "Giant Prick 👮‍♂️".

I had a job to do. I’m a digital forensic consultant, and today I had to deliver a report on a massive embezzlement case to the Miami PD. It had nothing to do with Thorne, which was the only reason I wasn't already at his throat.

Dante Richard Hawke

I woke up with a headache that felt like a rhythmic hammer to my skull. I checked my phone before I even had coffee. No response. "Fine. f**k her then," I grunted, tossing the phone onto my bed. I got ready for work, my muscles aching from the scuffle at the gala. I looked at the bruise forming on my ribs where one of those guards had landed a lucky kick.

When I walked into the precinct, the atmosphere was thick. Every cop in the room looked up. Some cheered. Some whistled.

"Hawke! Where's the ring, man?"

"Big Dog’s finally off the market!"

I ignored them all and walked straight into Captain Miller’s office. He was sitting there with a smug grin, a newspaper on his desk.

"Captain, about last night—"

"Save it, Dante," Miller held up a hand. "The press is eating it up. 'Local Hero Detective and Mystery Socialite Escape Gala Chaos.' It’s the best PR this department has had in years. I don't care how you met her, just don't f**k it up. She’s too good for a grump like you anyway."

"She’s not my fiancée, Captain. It was a cover," I said, my voice low and dangerous.

"Right, right. 'Cover.' Whatever you say, Romeo." Miller waved me off. "Now get out there. We’ve got a scene in Little Haiti. Double homicide. And your 'consultant' just arrived to drop off the forensic files."

I walked out of his office and stopped dead.

Nova was standing by my desk. She looked professional, her hair pinned back, her long legs crossed as she leaned against the metal frame. She looked like a civilian, but I could see the way her eyes scanned the room, looking for exits.

"What are you doing here?" I growled, stepping into her space.

"Doing my job, Detective. Some of us actually work for a living instead of just posing for cameras," she snapped, handing me a flash drive. Her blue eyes flickered with a spark of the fire from last night.

"Hawke! Take her with you to the scene," Miller yelled from his door. "She’s the one who cracked the digital trail on the victims. You two are a team now."

"The hell we are," we both said at the same time.

The Crime Scene: 10:30 AM

The yellow tape flickered in the wind. The smell of copper and stale rain was heavy. I was trying to look at the shell casings, but Nova was standing right in my light, poking at a tablet.

"Move, Nova. You’re contaminating the goddamn perimeter," I barked.

"I’m looking at the GPS pings, Dante! If you’d stop being a prehistoric caveman for five seconds, you’d see the killer didn't run, he took a car service," she hissed, stepping closer until her chest was nearly touching mine.

"I don't need a tablet to tell me how to track a killer!" I yelled, my face inches from hers. "You’re a civilian! Act like one!"

"A civilian who saved your sorry ass last night! You’re just mad because I’m better at your job than you are!"

She shoved my shoulder. I didn't move, but I grabbed her wrists. We were chest-to-chest, breathing hard, the bickering escalating into that physical tension that always ended in a fight.

"Hey, hey! Break it up!"

Officer Miller (no relation to the Captain), a young, over-eager rookie, stepped between us, putting a hand on my chest and a hand on Nova’s shoulder. "C'mon, Detective, let's keep it professional—"

SMACK.

It happened so fast the rookie didn't even see it coming. Nova’s palm connected with his cheek in a sharp, loud crack, and my own hand, swinging to push him out of the way, caught him on the other side.

The rookie stumbled back, clutching his face, looking like he’d just walked into a propeller.

"Don't. Touch. Me," Nova and I said in perfect, terrifying unison.

We looked at the rookie, then we looked at each other. The anger was there, but so was something else—something hot and jagged.

"You have a mean left hook," I muttered, adjusting my tie.

"And you’re still a prick," she replied, though her voice wasn't as sharp as before. She turned back to her tablet. "Now, are you going to look at these pings, or are we going to stand here until the sun goes down?"

I stood next to her, our shoulders brushing. We were a disaster. We were a liability. And I knew, right then, that I was going to end up following her into whatever fire she jumped into next.

The rookie, Miller, was still staring at us with wide, watery eyes, a perfect handprint beginning to bloom on his cheek. The rest of the scene went quiet. Even the forensic techs paused their bagging and tagging to witness the absolute chaos that was the "Hawke and his Fiancée" show.

"Get out of here, Miller," I growled, not even looking at the kid. "Go guard the perimeter before you get hurt for real."

The rookie scrambled away without a word. I turned back to Nova. She was still fuming, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her blazer. She looked like she wanted to hit me next, and honestly, the way my blood was pumping, I might have let her just to see what happened.

"You're a f*****g menace," I muttered, looking down at the tablet she was holding.

"And you're a goddamn dinosaur," she shot back, but she tilted the screen so I could see. "Look. These GPS pings didn't just stop at a car service. The vehicle that picked up our primary suspect is registered to a shell company. 'Apex Logistics.' Does that sound familiar, Detective, or is your brain too full of testosterone to remember your own case files?"

I stiffened. I knew that name. Apex Logistics was one of the three companies I’d found linked to the blind trust Marcus Thorne managed. The red mist in my head cleared instantly, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of the hunt.

"Thorne," I whispered.

Nova’s eyes sharpened. "Exactly. This 'unrelated' homicide just got a lot more interesting. The victim was an accountant for Apex. He was probably getting ready to squeal."

I looked around the crime scene. We were standing in the middle of a public street with a dozen cops watching us. I leaned in close, my shoulder pressing against hers, my voice dropping to a low, rough vibration. "We can’t talk about this here. The precinct is leaking like a sieve. If Thorne has ears in the department—and I know he does—he’ll know we’ve made the connection before we even get back to the car."

"So what's the plan, 'Big Dog'?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm, though she didn't pull away from the contact.

"We finish the sweep. We play the part. Then we meet at your place tonight," I said. "And bring your f*****g laptop. If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right. No more cowboy shit."

"Cowboy s**t? I'm not the one who kicked a door down and started a shootout in a five-star hotel, Dante!"

"The door was locked!"

"You have lockpicks! I was literally using them!"

"It was faster!" I roared, my frustration boiling over again.

We were back to shouting, our faces inches apart. A group of onlookers across the police tape started taking videos on their phones.

"Look at that," Nova hissed, nodding toward the crowd. "We’re trending again. 'The Power Couple’s Lovers' Quarrel.' You happy now, Hawke? Your 'human image' is a goddamn circus."

I looked at the cameras, then back at her. I felt a sudden, wicked impulse. If the city wanted a show, I’d give them a f*****g finale.

I reached out, grabbed the lapels of her blazer, and jerked her forward. For a split second, she looked genuinely shocked, her blue eyes blowing wide. I didn't kiss her—I wasn't that far gone yet—but I leaned down until my lips were brushed against her ear, looking for all the world like I was whispering a desperate apology.

"Keep acting, you crazy b***h," I breathed. "And don't you dare miss that meeting tonight."

I pulled back, giving her a sharp, fake-tender smile for the cameras. Nova stared at me, her face a mask of stunned rage, her hand twitching as if she were deciding whether to slap me or stab me.

She settled for a sharp kick to my shin.

"Seven o'clock," she spat, turning on her heel and marching toward her car without looking back. "And bring beer. If I’m going to look at your face for three hours, I’m getting drunk."

I watched her go, the sting in my leg a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up my neck. I had a feeling tonight was going to be a lot more than just a briefing