The rest of that shift felt like torture. Every time I walked past the holding block, I could almost feel Marcus watching me through the bars, that smirk burned into my brain.
My thighs were still sticky from him, my uniform wrinkled in places I couldn’t explain away, and every step reminded me how thoroughly he’d wrecked me. I kept telling myself it was a one-off thing stress relief, bad judgment, whatever. But deep down I knew I was lying. My body was already craving the next hit.
Around 4 a.m., when the station was basically a ghost town except for the desk sergeant dozing over paperwork, I made my move. I grabbed the evidence-room key from the lockbox I’d “forgotten” to log it earlier, checked the hallway camera feed on my phone to make sure no one was coming, and slipped down the c
