Chapter 5: Interrogation Sparks

Interrogation Three had become a crucible of ice and Fire.

The overhead fluorescent throbbed with a slow, deliberate rhythm—no longer random, but intimately synced to the rising heat between the two women. Every pulse of light felt like a caress across exposed skin, casting brief, intimate shadows that danced over collarbones and throats before retreating. The air was arctic, so cold that every breath crystallized in thick, languid clouds—visible, tactile, drifting between their bodies like silken veils that brushed lips, traced jawlines, and melted against heated flesh with a faint, wet kiss. The scent of ozone hung heavy, sharp and metallic, mingling with the sweeter, headier notes of jasmine blooming from Sophia’s skin and the clean, gun-oil-and-leather sharpness of Rikki’s. Beneath it all lurked something darker—brimstone, old incense, the faint copper tang of blood that wasn’t there yet.

Frost claimed the walls in thick, sensual sheets—branching outward in patterns that mimicked veins under skin, pulsing faintly as if the room itself had a heartbeat and it was quickening. The one-way mirror was completely obscured now, covered in a solid sheet of ice etched with Thorne’s sigil—its lines glowing an eerie, pulsing blue that cast the room in alternating waves of cold shadow and glacial light. The frost had texture: raised ridges that caught the light like tiny blades, and in places it wept slow, clear droplets that trailed down the glass like tears—or sweat.

Rikki Fire stood with her back to the locked door, coat discarded over the chair—revealing the fitted black tactical shirt clinging damply to her athletic frame from the heat she was generating, sleeves rolled high to expose toned forearms corded with tension, veins standing out beneath skin flushed with exertion. Her ponytail had loosened in the chaos of booking, dark strands escaping to frame her face and stick to the faint sheen of sweat at her temples, making her hazel eyes burn with feral intensity in the unnatural light. She was breathing harder than the cold warranted—chest rising and falling in deep, controlled waves that pressed her body rhythmically against Sophia’s with every inhale.

Sophia Voss remained pinned against the opposite wall—Rikki’s body a living restraint, thigh wedged firmly between hers, pressing with deliberate, grinding pressure that drew soft, involuntary sounds from Sophia’s throat—little gasps that tasted of jasmine and desperation. One of Rikki’s hands braced beside Sophia’s head, fingers splayed against the frost-covered concrete, leaving melting handprints; the other gripped Sophia’s hip with bruising possession, thumb tracing slow, burning circles through the wool coat, feeling the heat of skin beneath, the subtle tremor of muscle. The crimson silk scarf bound Sophia’s wrists behind her back, pulling her shoulders taut, arching her body forward into Rikki’s—breasts pressing against breasts through damp fabric, nipples hardened peaks dragging with every shared breath, hips grinding in subtle, inescapable friction that left both women slick with need beneath their clothes.

Their faces were inches apart—lips close enough that every word was a wet caress, every exhale a shared intimacy that tasted of coffee, jasmine, and raw want. Heat radiated where their bodies touched, defying the freezing air, creating pockets of steam that rose between them like incense, carrying the mingled scents of arousal—musky, sweet, undeniable.

Shadow paced frantically in his carrier on the table, yellow eyes wide and luminous, fur bristling to full volume. From his vantage, the room was a storm of sensation—Sophia’s jasmine scent blooming thick with arousal, mingling with Rikki’s sharp, clean heat of gun oil, leather, and the salty tang of sweat. The ozone bite of magic crackled in the air, but beneath it ran a deeper current: the primal, electric pull between predator and prey who had both decided they wanted to be devoured. Shadow’s tail lashed; he could smell the slick heat building between them, taste the charge on his tongue, see the invisible threads of shadow weaving tighter—not to harm, but to feed on the desire, growing bolder, thicker, more insistent.

Rikki’s voice was rough, low, vibrating through Sophia’s body where they pressed together—felt as much as heard. “You’ve got one chance to convince me you’re not playing me.”

Sophia’s bound body shifted—arching slowly, deliberately into the pin, thigh sliding against Rikki’s in a languid drag that drew a sharp, involuntary inhale from the detective, her scent sharpening with fresh arousal. Her hips rolled forward, pressing heat against heat through damp fabric, eliciting a low growl from deep in Rikki’s chest that Sophia felt rumble against her breasts. “One chance?” Sophia whispered, lips brushing Rikki’s jaw in a feather-light, wet tease that left a trail of warmth. “I thought you liked taking your time ... tasting.”