41. Maggie

Maggie

D on waits for the garage door to close completely before getting out. I brace myself for what's to come. True to form, Don grabs me roughly by the hair and yanks me out of the car. He's muttering to himself, a stream of self-congratulatory remarks about the genius of his plan. My head throbs from his grip, but my spirit remains unbroken. Fueled by anger and defiance, I yell, "You're so fucking stupid! They'll find me in minutes. You should run while you can."

Don laughs, a cold, merciless sound. "Nice try. I know how long the police take. Protocols and warrants. No one knows we're here."

He grabs some duct tape from the counter and shoves me down. When he reaches for my wrist, I yank it away, but his response is immediate—a hard slap across the cheek.

I gasp, but my eyes are still full of fire. "You'll pay for that," I say.

He chuckles again. "Yeah, I bet." He starts wrapping my wrists with the tape, the loud stretch of sticky fabric grating on my ears.

Once he's done, he grabs a beer from the fridge like he's about to watch a game on TV. He jumps up and sits on the counter, eyeing me with a smug expression. "You aren't going to ask why we're here?"

"As if I don't know. You want his life insurance money to pay off the funds you stole from the Chernog."

His face remains stoic, but I catch a slight twitch—he's pissed. "Suze talked, huh? Figures. She's such a disease."

I don't miss a beat. "She could be carrying your daughter. I saw the baby on the ultrasound. Surprisingly free of the devil's mark."

His grip on the beer bottle tightens. If it were a can, it would've been crushed. "Not mine. I always wrapped my shit. Axe fessed up. Fucking junkies, both of them. Kid will be a junkie too."

My face flushes, the sting of the slap still throbbing. "You fed her drugs! You made her that way!"

He laughs. "Honey, I'd think a cop would know better. You can't force someone to be an addict. She wanted it—all of it." He licks his lips, and I know we aren't only talking about drugs. His gaze grows unfocused as he gets lost in his twisted memories.

As Don's attention drifts, I hear the faint creak of a door. Don seems oblivious, but I see a shadow move an instant before he does. It's Grayson. Though I haven't seen him yet, I already know.

My heart leaps into my throat. He's come for me, and his face is full of fury.

"The fuck?" Don yells, jumping off the counter. But Grayson doesn't respond. He charges forward and tackles Don with such force that they smash into a wall, denting the drywall. The two men fall to the ground, locked in a fierce struggle.

I fight against the duct tape binding my arms. My heart pounds as I make my way into the kitchen, desperately searching for something to cut the tape. I find a knife and awkwardly grab it behind my back.

Grayson isn't a fighter. I know that deep in my soul, and he'll need my help to take on Don.

My entire body shakes as I try to cut the tape. In my frantic efforts, I slice into my own arm. Pain shoots through me, but I finally free myself, blood dripping from my arm.

Back in the living room, the scene is chaotic. Don is straddling Grayson, his fists raining down on him.

"You dirty fucking traitor!" Don bellows with each blow. "You destroyed our lives, filthy fucking rat."

I don't hesitate. I launch myself onto Don's back, wrapping my arm around his neck with every ounce of strength I have. Locking my hand under my own elbow, I squeeze on Don's throat. My arms tremble with the effort as Don's punches begin to slow. When they do, Grayson's head lolls to the side before he lazily reaches up and grabs Don's wrists.

Strangled sounds come from Don's throat, but I feel his body start to loosen. He's close.

"Don't let go, Maggie," Grayson's raspy voice says.

Grayson slips out from under them. When he's on his feet, he wobbles a bit before rushing to the kitchen. Don's phone is on the counter, and I see him pick it up. I continue my relentless grip, adjusting again so it's tighter. Finally, after what feels like hours—though it's probably only seconds—Don goes limp and crumbles onto the carpet.

Exhausted, I release my hold and struggle to my feet. My whole body is shaking, but my attention quickly goes to my wrist. It's bleeding badly.

"Maggie," Grayson says, tossing me a kitchen towel. I press it to the wound.

Without another word, Grayson drags Don's unconscious body to a closet filled with cleaning supplies and locks him inside with a chair. The moment Don is secured, all my pent-up emotions and adrenaline surge forward, and I find myself launching into Grayson's arms.

Our embrace is a mix of relief, pain, and unspoken understanding.

"Maggie," Grayson's words are a choked-up mess of sobs and happiness.

"I'm here, Gray. I'm okay."

His arms tighten around me, and despite the pain, I relish the feeling. Grayson is okay.

"I called 911, and Greg's on his way. Vanessa's fine. She's with the police," he says. Tears build in my eyes, and I don't try to stop them.

Before I can say anything else, he's kissing my face, his wet lips mixing with my tears, but I'm smiling.

The heat pools in my belly, every kiss like a small spray of gasoline on the fire jumpstarted by pure adrenaline. After a dangerous case, I usually need a release. It's happened before, usually alone with the toy I keep in my bedside table. But right now, I have him. I thought I'd lost him, but he's here. Before long, desire is raging within me like an inferno I can't control.

"Grayson," I say, my voice low. He stops kissing to look into my eyes, and I press my lips to his, slipping my tongue into his mouth.

"Yes, Maggie," he moans as I move to his neck. I'm not sure if it's a question or urging me on, but I don't care. The whole world could walk in, and I still wouldn't give a damn. I need this man, and nothing is going to stop me from getting what I need—not now, not ever again.