by Mazzy King
Just as this thought occurs to me, the woman pulls something shiny out of her pocket. Then she hisses, “Going to shut you up for good, bitch!”
She lunges toward Lyra, slicing.
My body reacts before my mind does, and I sling Lyra out of the way.
“Saint!” she cries.
The woman’s coming at me now. I shuffle back fast, reaching for my weapon and trying to shield Lyra.
“Freeze!”
Gunner races toward us, his service weapon drawn and trained on the woman. She sees him and drops the knife immediately. Then she lowers herself to her knees and interlocks her fingers, as if this is all no big deal.
I grab her and wrangle her arms behind her, then click on the metal bracelets.
“This isn’t over,” she says to Lyra. “You won’t be safe anywhere. Snitches don’t get stitches—they die.”
“And thanks for another felony,” I growl. “Attempted murder and now a terroristic threat.”
“It’s not a threat,” the woman snaps. “It’s a promise.”
Gunner and a couple more cops haul the woman inside. I turn to Lyra. “Are you all right?”
She’s breathing harshly. “I—yeah.”
“Do you know her?”
She shakes her head. “Never seen her before. She must be one of Max’s.”
“That means he’s watching,” I tell her. “He’s watching, and he knows you were here today. There’s no time to waste—I’ve got to hit the streets and find him.”
I take her into the building and meet with the undercover officers Gunner tapped to escort Lyra to the safehouse and explain what’s just happened.
One of the officers nods at me. “We’ll take care of her,” she promises.
I wish I could tell Lyra goodbye like I want to, but I settle for giving her a meaningful look. “I’ll be in touch,” I tell her.
She nods, then mouths, I love you.
Warmth blooms in my chest. I want to say it back so badly.
The officers lead her away, and I feel a small sense of relief in knowing she’ll be safe.
Then I link up with Gunner back on the seventh floor.
“It’s time to get this piece of shit off the streets,” I say between my teeth.
He smirks and nods, then inclines his head toward the interrogation room. “Our friend from outside is nice and cozy in there. Ready for a little chat?”
I’m already walking toward the room. “Let’s see if we can make her sing.”
It takes us only three days to locate Max Hendricks—and uncover the location of where the luxury cars went too.
Thanks to the woman we apprehended outside HQ, we find him inside another abandoned garage, but well away from downtown. He’s taken up in a location about ten miles outside the city in an industrial area. She gave us the intel after seventeen solid hours of interrogation. I went home to sleep for about two hours, then we organized our team and called for SWAT to assist.
Now, I snatch Max Hendricks by the crusty collar of his shirt and force him facedown on the ground. Rhys Hartley’s back on duty after getting wounded last month, and this is his first mission back. He practically has a smile on his face as he orders the other men in the garage onto their faces. Two of them are the two assholes who got away the night I went to the meeting.
And everywhere I look, there are foreign luxury vehicles. There’s easily ten million dollars’ worth of stolen cars inside this garage.
“I know you,” Max spits out. His cheek is pressed into the ground, his hands are cuffed behind his back, and I’m frisking him none too gently for weapons. “I saw you. With Lyra. The other day when you went to her apartment.”
“Figures you were watching,” I say in a clipped tone. “That’s how you knew to send your friend after us.”
“Had to make sure my girl didn’t snitch on me. And what a surprise, she did.”
I press the heel of my palm into the cheek that’s face up and lean down close to his ear. “Lyra is a lot of things—but let’s get one thing straight. She’s not your girl, and she never will be, ever again. Got that?”
“Whatever. You can have that stupid little bitch,” he grinds out.
I yank him hard to his feet and get in his face. “You’re a fucking cancer, Hendricks, and I want you to know I will use all my power to make sure you never get to feel freedom ever again.” I drag him over to a squad car, open the door, and thrust him inside. “As far as Lyra, you don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to think about her or talk about her. You’ll never see her again, and…” I give an evil chuckle. “Heaven help you if she ever encounters you.”
He sneers and leans toward me. “She was never good for anything but making me money. She was a shitty lay, too—on the rare occasions she gave it up. Have fun with that. Word to the wise, though—sometimes she needs a hard slap to the mouth to get her in line—”
I pull my Taser from my vest and fire into his thigh. The prongs dig into their mark and his entire body seizes as the volts course through him. He lets out a long groan of pain, eyes rolled back into his head, and then promptly pisses himself.
“Okay, then. Have a nice ride, buddy,” I say loudly, tucking my Taser back into its holster and shutting the door. I want to punch him in the face, but this was almost better.
The ugly things he said about Lyra float through my head, and I have to step outside to cool off. How dare he speak about her that way. But it goes to show he never really knew her. He never treated her in a way that let her flourish. He tried to snuff out her light, extinguish her brightness.
It feels good to know he never will.
I think of her and wonder how she’s doing. I know she’s safe and secure—I get updates from her security detail several times a day. They said all she asked for were the items she has at home to make her digital art—her lightbox screen, a special pen that goes with it, a big sketchpad, and pencils. They said she’s been making tons of art, listening to music, and seems tranquil.
It makes me so happy to know that, but I miss her terribly. I want to be with her. I want her in my arms, in my bed. I just want to be in her presence and listen to her talk about things and figure out every single one of the endless facets that make her up.
I want these things. Forever.
I can’t help but wonder if she wants these things, too…with me.
8
Lyra
I walk into the courthouse, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Today’s the day—the day I’ve been looking forward to as the first step toward putting the past behind me, and the day I’ve been dreading, because it means I have to see Maximillian Hendricks again.
I’m wearing plain gray slacks and a lavender long-sleeved shirt. Just a hint of makeup, and my hair is back in a nice twist. There’s no hint of the wild, tattooed artist today. I hate that I’m judged on my appearance, but I can’t afford for anything to go wrong.
I can’t afford for Max to somehow get off.
The past two weeks since I cooperated have been two of the most peaceful of my life. I had round-the-clock security who pretty much didn’t let me leave that safehouse but made sure I had everything I wanted. All I asked for were my art supplies and some books, and some groceries to cook, because cooking is something I enjoy. I made a lot of art, I cooked a lot of meals, I read some really good novels, and I listened to a lot of music. I meditated and stretched and did yoga.
And I’m not ashamed to admit that at night, lying in the bed I shared with Saint, I played with myself, imagining he was there with me. His scent still lingered on the sheets and the pillows, and I couldn’t help but remember all of our delicious moments—riding his mouth, him taking me hard from behind, and me tasting every last, thick inch of him.
I haven’t seen or heard from him in two weeks, but that’s because I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone but my contact on the security team. I miss him, and I want this all to be over so I can tell him how much I want to be with him.
&
nbsp; Inside the courtroom, I do my best to ignore Max from where he sneers at me from beside his lawyer. I’m sworn in, and then…
Let the games begin.
The prosecutor approaches me and after a few rounds of basic questions, she asks me to elaborate on the abusive nature of my relationship with Max.
My voice fails me.
It’s like every horrific memory I shared with him pelts me in that instant. I can’t stop staring at Max. I can’t stop reliving each one of those nightmares. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
At the back of the room, movement catches my eye and I slowly shift my gaze toward it.
Saint Rivers walks in, and he’s looking right at me.
No suit for him today—he wears black utility pants, a hoodie, and his detective vest. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing his heavily tattooed forearms.
One corner of his mouth turns up, and he gives me a nod.
You got this, he seems to say.
I swallow back the urge to cry.
Max can never hurt you again. You are stronger than him. You’re stronger than what he did to you. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I mutter.
“Miss Michaels?”
I look the prosecutor square in the eye and proceed to recount in disturbing detail everything Max ever did to me. The photos I offered the police are allowed in.
When I’m finished, the prosecutor gives me a nod. “Thank you very much for that, Miss Michaels. I can only begin to imagine how difficult that was for you. No further questions, Your Honor.”
The defense was called up next. He’s some hotshot Max pays a lot of money to, and he’s just as crooked as Max is. He comes at me with what feels like a zillion hard questions, but I stick to the truth and the facts and the evidence, and I endure him with as much grace as I can muster.
He seems disappointed at the end when he hasn’t been able to break me, and for the first time, I see Max’s arrogant smirk lose some of its confidence.
That’s all I need to for me to completely let go.
Because I was attacked outside the police station, my security team wastes no time getting me to the unmarked SUV they brought me here in and hurrying me back to the safehouse. One of the officers informs me I have to stay until Max and everyone involved with him go to prison for good. I might even be called up again—but I fervently pray I won’t be.
Officer Hansen—Saint’s friend Gunner—is in the house when I arrive. He smiles at me.
“I just wanted to tell you what an awesome job you did today,” he says, shaking my hand. “And that I’m being pulled off this case to work on something else, but it was a pleasure to work with you, and I wish you all the best.”
“Thank you for everything,” I say earnestly. I’m facing zero jail time because of Gunner and Saint, and I’m eternally grateful for that.
“You bet.” He smiles. “Good luck to you, Lyra.”
“Thanks.” I pause, chewing my lips. “Can you—can you thank Detective Rivers for me, too?”
Gunner gives me this mysterious little smile. “Yeah, sure. I’ll pass the message on.”
I decide some comfort food is in order, as well as a carb-fest, so baked mac and cheese and mashed potatoes along with oven-fried chicken are the menu, STAT. I’ve just pulled ingredients for the mac and cheese out when there’s a knock at the door. It’s the standard two long, one short knock the security team uses.
Curious, I head to the door, wondering what they need. When I open it, I freeze.
Saint stands before me.
He seems to be as in awe as I am, but he finds his voice first. “Lyra. I missed you.”
I jump into his arms.
Somehow, we get the door shut and locked. He pushes me against the wall, devouring my mouth.
“Saint,” I finally gasp as he works on my neck. “I missed you so much.”
We strip each other’s clothes off, leaving a trail to the bedroom. Maybe we should talk first, but two weeks without him was two weeks too long, and I don’t want to talk.
“God, I’ve wanted you so bad,” he breathes against my mouth, then dips his head to my naked breasts and teases my nipples. I writhe on the bed beneath him, already soaking wet and so, so ready.
“Fuck me, Saint,” I beg.
“I fully intend to,” he murmurs, “but first I need to taste you. I can’t stop thinking about your pussy in my mouth.”
I scream when his tongue slides between my folds and laps up all the creamy wetness I’m leaking. He sucks my clit and licks me into my first shattering orgasm, and I spurt my juices into his mouth shamelessly.
Then he turns me flat onto my belly, spreads my thighs, and slides home. His body shudders above me. “Fuck, I forgot how tight you are,” he groans.
I tilt my head back and we tongue-kiss while he fucks me slow and hard, grinding into me deep with the leisure of someone who has all the time in the world.
Because…now we do.
We fuck in the bed until we both come, his teeth in my shoulder, his hand tight in my hair, my hand grasping at his hip to pull him deeper still. We fuck in the shower against the wall until the water runs cold. He has me for an appetizer on the kitchen counter while I try to make us dinner, and then I treat myself to swallowing his long, thick cock and his hot, creamy cum while he sits on the couch and I kneel before him. I sit on his lap and ride him while the chicken bakes in the oven, and then, after we eat and watch a movie, he fucks me nice and slow on the edge of the bed, the moonlight spilling in through the parted curtains across my body lying prone beneath him.
When we’re exhausted and cuddled together under the covers, I tell him, “I want to start my life over. But I don’t want to leave Ridge City.”
He’s quiet for a while, his fingers playing with my hair, then he says, “You told me before you did. I completely understand why.”
I shake my head. “That was different. That was before…you.”
“I don’t want to hold you back, Lyra,” he whispers. “But I don’t want to lose you, either. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life. My soul feels…put together with you here.”
I lift my head off his shoulder and look him in the eye. “Then that’s all the reason I need to stay.”
He kisses me deeply. “I love you, crazy-beautiful girl.
“And I love you,” I whisper back. “My hero. My savior.”
My Saint.
Epilogue
Saint
Ask anyone if they think I’m reckless. They’ll probably say yes.
That’s a quality that follows me off the job into my personal life. Although, I like to think of it as living life to the fullest. I’m a man who takes what he wants, and today’s no difference.
Max Hendricks’s trial was swift, and unsurprisingly, he’s facing a whole lot of years in prison for his crimes. He’s never getting out—at least, if he ever does, he won’t be at an age where he’ll be interested in raising the kind of hell he has so far.
Lyra moved into my small house with me as soon as she was able. I let her have free rein over redecorating the house, and she’s done some awesome things. She’s made my house a home, and like my life, she was the piece that was missing for the longest time.
She does remote graphic design work for a business and has started her own freelance business on the side. In her spare time—when she’s not making love to me and blowing my mind with her sinful face and body—she’s working on her first artbook, a collection of amazing drawings cataloguing key moments of her life. She also likes to draw what can only be described as pornography, but it’s of me and her and it’s for our eyes only.
Oh, to be in love with an artist.
I walk through the door and find her in the kitchen. Cooking is her other love, stemming from her half-Italian side, and I love her for loving it. Not only does she keep me well fed, but I love to watch her at
work. And especially on a night like tonight, where she’s wearing one of my white ribbed undershirts with absolutely nothing on underneath and a pair of heels.
Jesus Christ and all His saints.
“Oh, hey,” she says casually as if she’s not dressed like a sex goddess. “I’m making linguine with clams tonight. White wine sauce, just like you like.”
I stroll up behind her, immediately reaching for her breasts and stroking her peaking nipples through the tank top. “First of all, you could make me Brussels sprouts and liver and I’d happily eat it with you cooking like this…and second of all, I’m pretty sure that’s my shirt. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t give you permission to wear it.”
She smirks at me over her shoulder and pushes her ass back against my straining dick. “Then maybe you should take it from me.”
“Oh, I’m going to take you, all right. With these heels on.”
She giggles. “Okay, but can I make the pasta first?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
But my act of martyrdom is just a ruse. As much as I definitely do want to take her, I need her to stay busy so I can put together the surprise I’ve been thinking about the past few weeks.
I head into our bedroom, then pause at the desk where her lightbox screen is set up. On the desk is a print proof of her first artbook, the one about key moments in her life.
I have a little drawing to add, too.
I flip to the back and stick in the sad little picture I drew over my lunch break. Then I head back out to the kitchen.
Lyra glances over her shoulder at me, smiles, then returns to the pasta. “Looking at the proofs again?”
“I just can’t get over how goddamn talented you are,” I reply, and mean it. “I also might have a criticism to offer.”
She whips back around, brows raised, and I do my best to bite back a laugh. “Oh, really? What’s that?”
“Well, I’ve taken the liberty of adding a drawing myself.” I hand her the proof book. “At the back.”
