Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
She knew something was wrong.
My Tiger.
My beautiful, brave Tiger who'd walked into my world with nothing but courage and a fucking recorder. Who'd earned the respect of my Fangs and Claws. Who'd made my Roar smile and my brother sleep.
Someone wanted to kill her, possibly multiple people. And they were getting desperate enough to act without orders.
"We need to get you both back." Reo's voice cut through my thoughts. "Now."
I faced him. "I know."
"Unfortunately, your romantic break is over. We need to strategize with the Claws and Fangs."
"Agreed."
"And we need your Tiger to start hunting tonight, not tomorrow."
I checked Nyomi one more time. She'd taken a step towards us, sensing the shift.
Always so perceptive.
Always reading the currents beneath the surface.
She was about to become the hunter instead of the hunted.
And God help whoever had sent those photos.
"Give me five minutes." My voice came out flat and emotionless. "I need to tell her."
Reo studied my face. "What will you say?"
"Everything. She needs to know what she's walking into."
"And then?"
I headed away and didn't look back. "Then my Tiger hunts."
Chapter twenty-five
The Red Riding Hood Collector
Nyomi
The helicopter blades cut through the air like the thoughts slicing through my mind.
Those photos that Kenji and Reo had shown me played on repeat. The violation made my skin crawl. But beneath the terror, something hotter burned.
Rage.
Pure, white-hot rage.
They wanted to kill me.
Or kidnap me.
Fuck them. How dare they?
Kenji’s thumb drew slow circles against my palm, grounding me, reminding me I wasn’t alone.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my brain was already shifting gears—moving from panic to something colder.
More focused.
I wasn’t a gangster.
No gun skills.
No combat training.
No experience with violence beyond what I’d witnessed in Kenji’s world.
But I’d hunted before—just not with weapons.
I’d hunted with words.
Questions.
Patience.
The ability to read people and make them reveal themselves.
Kenji looked at me. “Are you sure you’re okay with doing this?”
Reo watched me too.
I nodded. "I've done this before, at least this time I’m not alone."
Kenji's expression shifted to curious. "What was the other time?"
Reo leaned forward slightly.
I took a breath. "Five years ago, I helped put a serial killer away.”
Reo blinked.
“The police had nothing—no bodies, no evidence. Just suspicions and a comatose reporter who'd gotten too close."
Kenji's grip on my hand tightened. "Comatose reporter?"
"The tabloids called the serial killer the Red Riding Hood Collector.”
Reo quirked his brows. “Why?”
“Every missing victim had long red hair. Each one vanished at midnight.” I tensed. “The reporter on the assignment was Darren Kohl. He was investigating a butcher shop owner in Wisconsin."
I could still see that headline. "He'd called his boss and said he was close to identifying the killer but didn't give a name. That night, Darren's rental car went off the road near Pine Hollow Woods. It wrapped around a birch tree. He shattered both legs, and fractured his skull. They pulled him out of the wreckage, and he was mumbling one name over and over—'Caleb Ward. Caleb Ward.' Then he went into a coma. So. . .I went down to finish his work."
Kenji's voice grew dangerous. "Why did they send you?"
Kenji sounded like if he didn’t like the answer he would bomb the newspaper.
I gave him a sad smile. "No journalist with any common sense would take it.”
Reo snorted.
“Therefore, the New York Ledger needed a freelancer. They offered me triple pay, hazard insurance, and a front-page byline." I shrugged. "Rent was due, and I've always been too curious for my own good."
Reo's expression hadn't changed, but I saw the calculation in his eyes. "You went alone?"
"Yes."
Kenji's jaw clenched, but he didn't interrupt.
"When I met Caleb Ward, he didn't look like a killer. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. Gentle eyes. The first lie he told with his face." I could still smell that jail visitation room—soap, metal, and the odor of wrongness. It all made my skin crawl. "He sat across from me with his hands folded neatly and asked, before I could even hit record, 'Do you know why they call me the Butcher?'"
Kenji frowned. "What did you say?"
"I said, 'Because you own a butcher shop.'"
The corner of Reo's mouth twitched.
"He smiled. 'No. Because people like things tidy. Labels make evil easier to live with.'" I remembered that smile. Too small. Too controlled. "I asked if he was evil. He shook his head. 'No. I am necessary.'"
The helicopter banked slightly.
Kenji's thumb had stopped moving against my palm. His hand was now completely still.
"He talked about his mother a lot. Margaret Ward. A widow who'd raised him alone on their family farm. He told me how she loved gardening. How she said the soil remembered kindness. How she'd taught him to bury things deep—'so they could rest.'" I paused. "The way he said garden made my skin crawl.”
Reo tilted his head to the side. “Why?”
“Because. . .he said it like the garden was holy. Like it was breathing."