15. Beckett
Chapter 15
Beckett
I end my call with George and dial Sheriff Lucas.
“Lawson? This better be good.”
“I have the proof,” I say, getting straight to the point. “A sealed report from six years ago. Two months before you took Wade on. He targeted a fellow officer. It was buried so deep it took my contact a miracle to find it. Same pattern as the other women. Same escalation.”
The sheriff is silent on the other end of the line, but I sense the shift. Not belief. Not yet. But a crack in the doubt.
Finally, he speaks. “You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t. I’m on my way to Clover Canyon Auto. George is at the shop. Meet me, and I’ll explain everything.”
“I’ll come,” he says, doubt still threading his voice. “But if you’re wrong, Lawson…”
“I’m not,” I snap and kill the call.
Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside the shop. George’s truck is parked there, along with a car I don’t recognize. I’m instantly on high alert. And then I hear the crash of metal striking concrete, followed by George's voice, sharp with warning. A man's low, threatening response cuts through the air. Glass shatters.
I hit the workshop at a sprint, the door crashing open like thunder.
What I see stops my heart cold.
Marcus is inside, too close to her. His hand is at his hip, holding a gun. George is between him and the exit, her stance defiant, a wrench clenched white-knuckled in her fist. Her phone is on the floor, the screen flickering, tools scattered everywhere.
Rage tears through me like a detonation. My voice is low, steady, lethal. “Touch her again, and you won’t get back up.”
Marcus turns, smiling like this is some kind of game. “Your guard dog has arrived, George. Looks like we’re leaving sooner than expected.”
He swings his gun toward me. He thinks he can take me. He doesn’t know how wrong he is. Who he’s up against.
With a scream worthy of a banshee, George tackles him as his attention is diverted to me. His weapon flies from his hand, skittering across the floor.
His eyes flash in panic, and in a desperate move, he grabs a rag from the bench and throws it at my face before lunging for the open door.
Too slow.
I intercept, grabbing his jacket and driving him into the tool cabinet. It buckles under the weight. Tools crash to the ground. I don’t care.
He swings wild. Biting, clawing, going for my eyes like a cornered animal.
I’ve seen worse. Fought worse. Ended worse.
Every strike I land is calculated. No wasted effort. No hesitation. Violence, stripped to its bones.
He grunts as I slam him to the ground, one knee in his spine, his arm twisted back in a hold he’s not getting out of without a dislocation.
I look up.
George is standing there, breath shallow, eyes locked on mine. She’s alive. Strong.
Something in my chest breaks.
She doesn’t look away from what I just did. She sees me. All of me. And she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run.
Gravel crunches behind me. Heavy boots. I already know who it is.
Sheriff Lucas.
Marcus writhes under my grip like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice turns slippery. “Sheriff! Thank God! This psycho attacked me! I was checking on George, and he lost it!”
Bullshit.
George opens her mouth to speak, but her voice cracks.
I don’t move. I look at the sheriff as he steps inside, scanning everything—the wreckage, George’s stance, the phone on the floor, Marcus’s bloodied face.
And me.
His weapon raises. The barrel centers on my chest.
“Step back, Lawson.”
I rise slowly, palms out, but my pulse pounds with a single, brutal thought—kill. I could still end Marcus before he pulls the trigger. I’ve done worse for less.
My gaze drops to George’s wrist, to the bruises blooming there like violent flowers.
I clench my fists so tight that my knuckles pop as tendons strain against skin. This isn't about justice; it's about possession. Marcus touched what belongs to me, and the animal inside demands retribution. But if I move now, I won't stop until Marcus is nothing but a memory.
Then George positions herself between her father's weapon and me, her back pressing into my chest. “You’re pointing your gun at the wrong man, Dad.” Her voice slices through the tension, hard and unwavering.
She trembles against me, not with fear, but with rage. And that shatters something inside me. A woman like George, shaking with fury over me. For me.
The sheriff's eyes shift between Marcus, George, and me. Realization crawls across his face like a shadow. The gun lowers.
“Sheriff Lucas… James.” Marcus spits out the blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “This is ridiculous. I was just checking on her, and this psycho?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the sheriff commands, pulling out his handcuffs.
Marcus’s protests grow desperate as he approaches. “James, you can't seriously?—”
“Name’s Sheriff Lucas, asshole. And I can. I am.” His voice is cold and final as he hauls Marcus up and snaps the cuffs into place. “You're done.”
* * *
Chaos buzzes around us. Deputies arrive. Statements are taken. Radio chatter crackles through the air. But I’m only aware of one thing.
George. At my side. Close. Closer. Nothing else matters Just her. That she’s whole and safe. The woman who’s become my reason for breathing.
I catalog every inch of her, the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremble in her fingers, the dark bruise forming like a brand around her wrist. That mark—his mark—makes my vision blur red at the edges. Rage claws through me, hot and primal, a fire I can’t put out.
Then her hand finds mine, fingers weaving through like it’s second nature. Like she knows . The contact slams straight to my core, steadying the fury and replacing it with something even fiercer. That quiet, unshakeable knowing that I’d burn the world to ash to keep her safe—and rebuild it just to see her smile.
I’m fucked. Completely, irrevocably fucked.
Because I need her to keep me steady. I need her scent, her touch, her voice.
Because I love her.
When Marcus has been loaded into a patrol car and the workshop has emptied of everyone but us, she turns to me.
Her eyes are dark, her mouth parted, breath uneven.
I know that look.
Need. Possession. A choice already made.
Then she moves.
Her hands grab my collar, fisting the fabric. Her body presses against mine—heat, curves, determination. Then her mouth is on mine. The kiss is rough and deep. A claim.
My control shatters like glass.
I yank her against me, crushing her to my chest, kissing her like she’s air and I’ve been drowning. My hands span her waist, lifting her slightly to align our bodies.
She responds fiercely, gripping my shirt tighter and moaning into my mouth. That sound—Jesus, that sound nearly undoes me. I back her against the workbench, lifting her onto it without breaking the kiss. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in place as if I’d ever consider leaving.
Somewhere, someone clears their throat. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the taste of her, the feel of her against me.
I only let her breathe when she pulls back, her fingers still curled into my shirt, her breath still uneven. Her lips are swollen from our kiss, her cheeks flushed.
“Mine,” I growl, the word ripped from some primal place inside me.
Her eyes widen, but not with fear. With recognition. With claiming possession.
“Yours,” she whispers.
Sheriff Lucas clears his throat again, louder this time. “I'm still here, you know.”
George laughs, slightly breathless. She doesn't move away from me, doesn't unlock her legs from my waist. If anything, she pulls me closer, defiant even now.
“Yeah, we know,” she says, but her eyes stay locked on mine.
I should care that her father is watching. I should care that we’re in public. But I don’t. Not when I’ve finally found what I’ve been searching for without knowing it.
“We need to talk,” the sheriff says, his voice strained. “All of us. But maybe...” He gestures vaguely. “Later.”
“Later,” I agree, not taking my eyes off George.
Her father sighs heavily, turns to leave, then pauses.
I brace myself. The man just watched me kiss his daughter like she was the only thing keeping me breathing. I expect a threat, a warning—hell, maybe even a right hook.
But instead, he scrubs a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking between us. Something in his expression shifts and softens.
“George, I…” His words trail off as he looks at his daughter.
I gently disentangle myself from George and step back. Not away. Never away. But I give them space. This is between father and daughter. I'll never come between that, no matter how much the possessive beast inside me snarls at the distance.
The sheriff's next words come slowly, as though they hurt. “I should have listened. To both of you.”
I stay quiet. This isn't my moment. But I hear the truth in it, the weight of his failure.
“Yeah. You should have,” George says quietly.
He clears his throat again, shifting on his feet. “I was wrong about Marcus. I just wanted you to be taken care of, George. I wanted to know you were safe. But I see now... you don’t need someone to look after you.” He nods, finally meeting her eyes. “You’ve been doing just fine on your own.”
Her breath catches.
“I’m proud of you.” The words are rusty like they’ve been lodged in his throat for too long.
George doesn’t move, but I see the tears in her eyes and the way her lips part slightly as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words.
His throat works as he glances away, like looking at her too long will break him. “You remind me of your mom. She had the same fire. Same way of pushing back, even when she knew it would cost her. Drove me nuts, but she had the biggest heart. People loved her for it. I loved her for it.”
In that unguarded moment, I see the man behind the badge. The husband who lost the love of his life. The father who was left to raise a daughter he didn’t always know how to comfort—so he tried to protect her the only way he knew how. With rules. With structure. With a love that didn’t always come out gentle but was steady all the same.
“After your mom”—he clears his throat—“I didn’t know how to do this alone. And I didn’t want to lose you too.”
George presses her lips together, trembling, fighting for control. Not weak but full of everything she’s held in for years. “You didn’t lose me, Dad.”
He lets out a breath that sounds more like a surrender than a sigh. Then, quieter, rawer: “I love you, Georgie. More than I’ve ever been able to say. More than I’ve ever known how to show.”
My chest tightens as George sucks in a sharp breath.
Because I know she’s been waiting to hear those words for a long, long time.
She blinks fast, swallows hard. “Dad…”
But he shakes his head like he can’t handle any more emotions tonight. “I know I don’t say it enough. Maybe I never did. But it was never about you not being enough, George.”
Something flickers in his expression. He nods sharply and clears his throat like that’s the end of it.
Then he turns his gaze on me, and just like that, the moment of softness is gone.
“You hurt her,” he says, his voice dangerous in its simplicity, “and they’ll never find your body.”
George lets out a watery laugh, but I don’t smile.
I hold his gaze and nod. “Understood.”
Another beat of silence. Then he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, and finally heads for the door. “Lock up when you’re done.”
The second he’s gone, George exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years.
I wrap her in my arms and press my forehead against hers, inhaling deeply. Each breath makes my pulse hammer harder and my grip tighten. I’m addicted, and I know it.
“Are you okay?” The question rasps from my throat, rough with barely contained fury.
Her hands frame my face, thumbs skimming my cheekbones as if she’s memorizing me. “I am now.”
Three simple words break me open all over again.
“I should have killed Marcus,” I confess, the darkness in me still not completely sated.
She shakes her head. “No. This is better. He faces justice. Real justice.”
“If he ever comes near you again?—”
“He won't.” She shakes her head. “But if he does, we'll face him together. Because the Beckett I know doesn't fight alone anymore.”
Together. My chest expands as her words fill spaces I didn’t know were empty.
I kiss her again, slower this time. Less desperate, but no less claiming. Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the ridges of muscle and the scars that tell stories I’ll share with her someday. But not tonight. Tonight is about this. Us. The beginning of something neither of us saw coming.
“I’m staying with you tonight.”
It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be.
I smirk. “As if I’d let you leave.”
Her answering laugh is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
I lift her from the workbench, and her legs wrap around my waist. As I carry her toward my apartment, her arms around my neck and her heartbeat against my chest, I know with bone-deep certainty that I’ve finally found my purpose.
Protect her. Love her. Keep her.
I intend to do all three until my last breath.