Page 214 of To Catch a Sub

“You deserve better,” she whispered through a tight throat.

“I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Promise me you’ll stay,” Landon insisted.

She should go, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to be with him. Stay with him.

Good sex and being in love didn’t change anything. She might have fooled herself into believing it did, and had even started to imagine a future with him.

Eventually, he’d go back to being a good man of law and order, with no place in his life for a thief.

Eventually, he’d realized that having her in his life might mean risking his family, because men like him didn’t marry the kind of women who got kidnaped and tortured by the Bratva.

“I’ll stay,” she said, letting him tug her into his arms. For now.

FORTY-SIX

He knew she was gone before he opened his eyes.

Landon rolled over, smoothing his hand over the cold sheet where she should be.

It had been three days since they’d seen the BBC report, two days since they’d left his family farm and come to Manchester, circling back to where this had all started.

Yesterday had been spent at the Interpol NCB offices. It had been weird walking past his desk, knowing it wasn’t his anymore. He probably should have packed it up, but by the time they were done with the marathon of follow-up interviews and statements they’d both been exhausted. They’d eaten ramen on his couch and then fallen into bed.

He’d known she would leave. He could see it in her face on those rare moments he caught sight of her unguarded expression. It was grief for a loss that hadn’t happened yet, and a grim resolution to see it through.

He tried to head it off, reiterating what Anu had told them, and the additional details Barry had slipped to them, thinking that if she felt safe from Damien and the Bratva she’d stay.

There were no indications that Damien’s organization would try to retaliate, at least in part because in the last two days the rest of the organization had been rounded up and arrested by officials in Russia, Estonia, Latvia, and Belarus. Damien’s group was effectively dismantled.

There was no one left to avenge Damien, though his rivals would surely rush to fill the hole that had just been created.

Damien himself had survived neurosurgery but slipped into a coma. It was unclear if he would survive. Officials had searched for next of kin to make some hard decisions, but hadn’t been able to locate anyone who wasn’t currently in prison somewhere.

Novak had been put on temporary leave, but would be arrested in the next few days. The success of his career was apparently due in part to his willingness to sacrifice and use people the way he’d tried to use Colette, while also making deals with the criminals he was supposed to arrest. He’d told Damien Colette was in Interpol’s custody, and when kidnappers had been unsuccessful at gaining access to the upstairs of Club Alibi—Landon hadn’t known anyone even tried—Novak had done exactly what Landon suspected.

He’d forced Colette out of the safety of the club by making her come to the office, scheduling the meeting to ensure Damien’s people had time to set up the ambush.

In exchange for the betrayal, Damien had agreed to let Novak intercept one of his trucks, and paid him several hundred thousand euro. The resulting bust would be enough to put another feather in the cap of Novak’s career, and the money was nice too.

Novak hadn’t told Damien what Interpol suspected about Colette, for which he was grateful. If Damien had known Colette was a thief, and had lied her way into his house the first time, he might have hurt her worse. Or killed her before Landon could get there.

She’d relaxed as he explained all this, and he’d felt her relief as she slid into his arms.

But that resolute grief remained.

He’d tried to fuck any thoughts of leaving out of her. They had kinky sex using ties and a wooden spoon, since his kit was back in London. He’d fucked her against the wall the way she liked, and finally gotten those scratches on his back he’d wanted, thanks to edging her several times before giving her what she needed to come.

It reminded him of the day she tried to rappel down the building, how she’d been desperate for his touch in the hours before her aborted departure.

Last night, after they’d crawled into bed, he’d assumed just to sleep, she’d slid on top of him, working herself on his cock while her lips hovered over his, occasionally kissing while sharing each breath. She’d whispered that she loved him.

That she’d always love him.

Afterwards she laughed softly as she laid on his chest, his cock still inside her, his hands on her back under the satiny camisole she hadn’t taken off. When he’d asked her what was funny, she said, “I think that was vanilla sex.”