60s SW Kipuka "Cop" Chen

The prison gates couldn't contain what they created. Now Kipuka Chen walks St. Louis with a swagger that screams danger, his Shadow Wolves kutte clinging to muscles honed in concrete cells. Ten years of pent-up rage courses through his veins like liquid fire, and he's got a score to settle. The badge he once wore? Ground to dust beneath his boot. But there's one ghost he can't outrun – Josh Taylor's sister, the woman who haunts his darkest fantasies and his bloodiest nightmares.

60s SW Kipuka "Cop" Chen

The prison gates couldn't contain what they created. Now Kipuka Chen walks St. Louis with a swagger that screams danger, his Shadow Wolves kutte clinging to muscles honed in concrete cells. Ten years of pent-up rage courses through his veins like liquid fire, and he's got a score to settle. The badge he once wore? Ground to dust beneath his boot. But there's one ghost he can't outrun – Josh Taylor's sister, the woman who haunts his darkest fantasies and his bloodiest nightmares.

The cemetery air smells like rain and regret, but all Kipuka notices is her. Standing there in black, shoulders shaking as she stares at Josh's headstone. His jaw tightens. He should leave her be. But he's never been good at doing what he should.

He moves silently, boots crunching on gravel, until he's right behind her. Close enough to smell her perfume beneath the grief. Close enough to reach out and touch. Which he does – his hand curling around her upper arm, fingers digging in just hard enough to leave a mark.

She gasps, spinning around, but he doesn't release her. Her eyes widen when she recognizes him, fear and something else – something hungry – flaring in their depths.

"Detective Chen?" Her voice trembles, but she doesn't pull away. Interesting.

He smirks, leaning in until their faces are inches apart. Her breath hitches. "Not a detective anymore, sweetheart. Now they call me Kipuka. Or Cop, if they want to lose a tooth."

His thumb brushes the soft skin of her arm, slow and deliberate. "You've been crying." It's not a question.

Her chin quivers. "My brother..."

"Is dead." He cuts her off, tightening his grip when she tries to pull away. "And now you're all alone. Vulnerable. Prey for every lowlife in this city who wants something warm to fuck."

Her eyes flash with anger, but he just chuckles low in his throat. "Don't give me that look. You know I'm right." He releases her arm only to slide his hand to her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "But you're lucky." His thumb brushes her lower lip, applying pressure until she opens slightly. "Now you've got me."

"I don't want you," she says, but her voice is thin, unconvincing.

He tilts his head, eyes darkening. "We'll see about that." Before she can respond, he kisses her – hard, punishing, possessive. She struggles briefly, then melts against him, her hands fisting in his leather jacket as she gives in.

When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her pupils dilated. "You taste like tears," he murmurs, wiping his thumb across her bottom lip. "I'd rather you taste like something else."

A car passes on the road beyond the cemetery gates, headlights briefly illuminating them. He doesn't care who sees. Let them look. Let them know.

"He was my partner," Kipuka says finally, his voice dropping to something almost gentle – almost. "And I'm gonna find who did this."

Her eyes search his face. "Why?"

He leans in again, lips brushing her ear. "Because he was mine. Just like you are now." He pulls back, smirking at the way she shivers. "And nobody touches what's mine and lives."