Chapter 18 Derek #2
He shoots me a look—half-exasperation, half-soft warning—then reaches for the keys again with a sigh that says fine, but don’t make me regret it .
The lock clicks again.
I step into her cell before the door’s even fully open and wrap my arms around her.
The lock slides shut with a final, metallic thunk. Thunder rattles the rafters.
But in here, in this god-awful holding cell with rust stains and a mattress thinner than my patience, holding her?
It doesn’t feel like prison.
It feels like the start of something we should’ve had a long time ago.
Once Simon leaves, I wait for his footsteps to fade before settling onto the cot with her.
Outside, the storm rages—wind howling, lightning painting cracks across the wall.
The dogs must be terrified.
Annabelle leans into me, and I toss the scratchy blanket over our legs.
Then, slowly, I reach into my boot, pull out the tiny multi-tool I stashed, and slip it into her hand behind my back, careful to keep it out of the camera’s view.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
“Trying something.”
Then, I realize there’s no one to watch the stupid cameras in this town.
I work the window with the pick. The old wood, swollen with age and rain, doesn’t budge. Not even a little.
“I could dismantle it with more time. More light. A wedge maybe…”
She places a hand on my arm. “You tried. But we’re not fugitives. Come back to me.”
I do.
She burrows into my side like I’m the only warm thing in the world, and maybe I am right now.
We settle onto the cot, her thigh draped over mine, blanket pooled around our legs, and for a second, I almost believe we’re safe.
But I know better.
If the court tosses our marriage, I lose everything. The trust. The land. Sarah’s legacy.
But right now, all I care about is the woman curled beside me, body tight with silent tremors beneath a scratchy county-issued blanket.
Rain drums a war rhythm above us.
“You sure this isn’t our honeymoon suite?” I murmur. “Open concept, privacy, tons of natural ambiance…”
“Five-star jail chic,” she whispers. “If we ask nicely, maybe they’ll throw in a mint.”
“I’ve got mints in my jacket,” I say, nuzzling her hair.
She laughs. It’s real. Brief. But the sound is enough to knock something loose in my chest.
Then her smile fades. Her gaze lowers. “I wish I’d handled things differently with Mike. With the divorce.”
I tuck a lock of damp hair behind her ear. “You told me. You survived. That’s what matters.”
She exhales slowly. “And now, we deal with the fallout.”
“We will,” I say. “Together.”
She shifts to her side, her leg sliding over mine. Bare skin. Warm breath. A brush of lips. And yeah—despite everything, I’m still half-hard.
Because, of course, I am.
My wife is curled against me in a locked cell, and I’m a man with a perfectly functional sex drive and historically poor timing.
She arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“What? I’m a man with a working circulatory system. And thunder’s kind of my kink.”
She snorts. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet here you are, all warm limbs and questionable judgment.”
“If this ends in more handcuffs, I swear to God…”
I kiss her before she can finish.
It’s slow at first. Soft. A grounding kiss in a storm we didn’t ask for. But when her fingers trail over my thigh, I deepen it. Her breath catches. Her lips part. I pull her onto my lap beneath the thin blanket and slide my hand between her thighs.
Thank God for dresses.
My fingers trace over her panties.
“You’re soaked,” I murmur against her mouth.
“It’s the rain,” she lies, breathless.
I stroke her slowly, deliberately, watching her unravel in my arms in the middle of a jail cell.
Her head tilts, lips parting on a silent gasp as I drag my fingers through her folds, circling the slick heat of her until she bites down on my shoulder to keep quiet.
I slide two fingers inside her, coaxing her to the edge with my thumb.
“Derek,” she gasps. “I’m gonna?—”
She shudders in my arms, curling tight, mouth pressed to my neck.
I hold her until she steadies, then press a kiss to her drying lips.
She exhales a shaky laugh. “So this is how we spend week one of being married?”
“In a jail cell. Sneaking orgasms between thunderclaps. Honestly, I expected worse.”
“You would,” she mutters, tugging her dress back down.
I grin. “Hey, I could’ve waited for proper sheets. Maybe even a shower.”
“You touching me like that?” she says softly. “Took my mind off everything that’s fucked up.”
The smile fades from her face. Her voice drops. “Derek… I’m scared. When the government finds out I married Mike to avoid a murder conviction… And so he could get a green card… And the forged divorce papers… They’re going to come after me. He’s going to come after me.”
I tighten my arms around her. “Let them try.”
“I’m serious. He’s not done. I can feel it.”
We lie back together on the narrow cot, bodies curved, her back tucked to my chest. I spoon her beneath the blanket, still half-hard, still aching, but content. And that’s when the door creaks open.
Caroline steps in, clipboard tucked under one arm, rain dripping off the hem of her coat.
She eyes us both. “Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not,” I mutter. “But if you give us five more minutes, we can finish what we started.”
She sighs, already mid–eye roll. “Okay. I’m going to need therapy. Possibly holy water.”
“We’re honeymooners on a budget. What do you expect?”
“Save your snuggling for home, Romeo,” she says. “I’m here because your bail just got approved.”
Annabelle lifts her head. “Wait—what? That was fast.”
Caroline nods, eyes softer than usual. “Emma pulled strings. Blake threatened to sue someone. You’re free. Simon’s buried in paperwork from three counties. So keep your pants on. Or don’t. I’m not checking. Are you coming or what?”
Simon shows up and unlocks the cell with a smile.
We shoot up like two springs.
Caroline turns, then pauses at the door. Her voice shifts—quieter now.
“One more thing. You’re not going to like it.”
Annabelle stiffens. “What?”
Caroline glances between us. “Mike’s not backing down, and Rick seems like a viable alibi. Emma did a background check. They’re dirty, and Mike’s stirred up a legal mess that’s going to take time to unravel. And... The truth is, none of us can guarantee your safety right now.”
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“I’m saying don’t go home. He knows where you live.”
Annabelle goes still in my arms. Her heart kicks harder beneath my hand.
“We’ll stay with my parents,” I say without hesitation. “They’ve got the space. And Blake and Misty are already there.”
Caroline nods. “Good. I’ll let Emma know. And start pulling together everything for court. Photos, texts, that journal I’ve heard about but still haven’t seen. From what I hear, Mike has a few pages. We’ll need it all.”
“We’ll get it,” Annabelle says quietly.
Minutes later, we climb into the truck. She bundles up against the chill, pies and blankets tucked in the back. The rain has finally eased, leaving the gravel road slick and shining under the headlights as I steer down the rutted lane toward my parents’ farmhouse.
A wind chime tinkles faintly from the porch—the one Sarah hung there the summer she was sick. I took it down twice; and twice, my mother put it back up.
I used to hate that sound. Now it feels like a warning. Or maybe, a reminder.
If the court rules our marriage invalid, I lose everything. The trust. The land. That chime.
And what happens to Annabelle then? What happens to her bakery? To the home she just started building inside my arms?
The windows glow warm against the night, and I can already smell Mom’s stew through the glass.
We’re going to need more than shelter. If the marriage isn’t valid, we’ll need multiple lawyers and a solid strategy, along with every shred of proof she buried—every bruise she disguised, every lie Mike told.
And if I’m thrown out of the final race, which seems more likely by the hour, that land could slip through my fingers. Her bakery dream with it.
I’ve already lost one future. I’m not losing this one.
This isn’t just survival anymore. It’s justice.
Annabelle’s hand finds mine on the console, her thumb brushing my palm.
Dad’s old Ford is parked out front. He’s waiting on the porch, lantern in hand, boots tapping softly. Mom’s behind him, apron dusted with flour, hair pinned high. She hurries down the steps the second we climb out, wrapping Annabelle in a wool blanket before I can even reach for mine.
My dad doesn’t say anything—just sets a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, like he used to when I scraped my knees and didn’t want to cry. And I think, for a second, about how much of this would’ve broken me if I didn’t have them. If we didn’t have them.
This house doesn’t just hold memories. It holds us.
Inside, the fire crackles. The table’s set. Stew waits under a checked cloth, and the scent of fresh bread fills the room.
I exhale a breath and let my mother pull me into a welcome hug.
For a moment, the storm outside feels a world away.