The Cardigans (Criminal Intentions, Season One #1)

by Cole McCade

Pretty, but in a sort of vicious, foxlike way. No—not foxlike. He reminded Malcolm more of a feral cat that condescended to tolerate a human presence, but the moment that human came too close he’d be off with a hiss and a flick of his tail.

Khalaji carried himself like an old and battle-torn wolf, grave and fierce and solemn, the last one left of his pack and yet determined to defend his territory to the death, even when he could barely stand. His crisp, neat slacks, button-down, tie, and suit coat didn’t match the impression he gave off; the wolf in sheep’s clothing, right down to the old trench of a scar starting high on his temple and snaking in a jagged line through one severe brow, skipping over his eye, picking up at the cragged line of his cheekbone to leave an indelible mark on tanned, rugged skin.

He had the thoughtful, slow-speaking way of someone kind who would claim he wasn’t in the slightest. Someone soft. Seong-Jae had little experience in dealing with softness, and he did not want to start now.

He didn’t look the type, but then real people never did. Real people only looked like themselves, instead of their sexuality.

He was surrounded by gold, when everything inside him was bloody and tarnished.

This close, Seong-Jae could see strange flecks against the slate blue of Khalaji’s eyes, a muted shade of green as if fallen leaves floated against a still pool of glacial runoff.

What are you running from, old wolf? Are you afraid Little Red Riding Hood will catch you?

Homicide detectives weren’t dealers in justice. They were peddlers of grief.

“We only define others by the value they have to us, and once they no longer provide that value, we let them go.”