“Princess?”
She blinks once, exhaling, lips wet. I want to bite them, feel them again.
“Lex,” she begins, and I grunt at the familiarity. “We’ll continue in a few hours. I have to handle this now.”
Holding up his hand, he twists his face to the ceiling. “Say no more. I don’t need to know what you’re going to do.”
“Who would’ve thought the capo can’t handle a little bit of torture?” I wink, egging him on. “I figured this was normal for you.”
“Torture?” He scoffs, organizing the desk. “Sure, I can handle that. But your specific brand? The O’Brien way? No.” Green colors his cheeks. “I can still see my cousin’s head rolling across my desk. It’s not natural.”
“I took it easy on him.” Maeve walks past me, and I follow, compelled to be near her.
“We’ll send you a note when we’re finished. Wouldn’t want you throwing up all over your expensive suit.”
Once in the hall, I slip my hand into hers, tugging her close. She’s stiff at first, but once my arm curves around her shoulders, she melts. She knows she’s safe with me.
Pressing a kiss to her temple, I inhale her scent. With a shower, fresh clothes, I can still smell me on her, and it makes me fucking feral.
“Still with me?” A saying that seems to be more than a simple statement—it’s a check-in. A way to gauge how the other is doing. A way for me to decide if she needs grounding, if she’s losing the battle against her demons.
She almost did when we were younger, and I promised to never let her do that again.
Nodding, she clings to my side as I direct us to the elevator. “I’m with you.”
“And the ghosts?” I glance down at her, entering the steel box.
She chews on her lip, and I tug it free.
I know how the voices torment her—how every single horrible thing that’s happened to her seems to replay on loop in her mind. She hears the despairing comments from Ferguson and the disgusting words from Michael as if she’s stuck there again. If I could erase those memories, take them from her and live them instead, I would.
All I can offer is my support.
“They’re there,” she admits quietly. Wrapping her close, I tuck her under my chin, feeling her curves press against mine. Her nails dig into me as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear. “But they’re quieter.”
“Why?”
She sighs. “Because you’re louder.” Looking up, I’m struck by the intensity in her gaze and her heat that seems to lull me into a peace I’ve never found elsewhere. “I hear you in my head, battling back their thoughts. It sounds weird?—”
“It’s not weird,” I interrupt. Lifting her chin, I run my lips over hers, inhaling her essence. “You might hear me in your head, but I feel you in my chest when you’re gone. If that’s weird, then we’re both a little fucked up.”
The elevator stops, the bell chiming overhead.
“We’re both fucked, Pup,” she says, smiling slightly. It’s a small grin, but it’s enough to lighten a gray sky, turning everything rosy and bright.
Lifting her knuckles to my face, I press a soft kiss to the scarred skin, never breaking eye contact.
“Then two fucked-up halves of one whole. Pretty fitting. Shall we?” I tug her toward the side of the basement that holds the interview rooms.
A bullshit name her father gave them. They’re torture rooms, with one-way mirrors, a broken chair, a dirt-packed floor, and musty cement walls. Most of them still smell like leftover vomit and blood.
At the far back corner, around a few broken chairs and old leather restraints, I open the door. The hinges squeal, and Maeve’s breaths increase, pulse jumping in anticipation.
I knew my girl would love this.
Walking in, I shove my hands into my jeans, staring down at the bruises and sweaty face of Murray James. He’s passed out, but no matter. He’ll come to soon enough.
“Wake up, Murray,” I coo, kicking the chair. “It’s time to play.”
