29. Maren
Maren
W atching him as he parks the truck, I notice how sharp his profile is against the glow of the dashboard. The blood drying on his skin causes mine to sing in my veins.
The walk to my apartment is silent. Not the uncomfortable kind but the kind where words would just get in the way. His hand rests on the small of my back, steady and warm. Grounding me.
Once inside, I lock the door behind us, then stand there staring at the red on my hands. It's under my fingernails, in the creases of my knuckles.
“Bath or shower?” Riggs asks, already shrugging off his jacket.
“Shower,” I say.
He nods, then steps closer, his hands finding my waist.
“Arms up,” he commands softly.
I comply, letting him pull my shirt over my head. He drops it onto the growing pile of clothes that'll need to be dealt with later. His fingers trace a line of blood across my collarbone, feather-light.
“You're beautiful,” he murmurs.
“Covered in someone else's blood?”
His smile is slow, dangerous. “It complements you.”
In the bathroom, he turns on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam begins to fill the small space as he finishes undressing me, then himself. The sight of him never gets old. No one’s body should be that put together. It should be illegal. Like a blond Adonis.
He steps into the shower first, then holds out his hand.
The water hits my skin, turning pink as it washes away the evidence of Detective Harlow. I close my eyes, tilting my face into the spray. For a moment, I just breathe, letting the heat and pressure work their magic.
Then, his hands are on my shoulders, turning me to face him. I watch his face as he studies mine, his hands coming up to push my hair back from my forehead. There's something reverent in the way he touches me now, like I'm both dangerous and precious.
“Let me,” he says again, reaching for my shampoo.
“I’m not helpless, Riggs,” I tell him, but there's no edge to my words.
“Never said you were.” He squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm. “But you don't have to do everything alone anymore.”
I start to argue, then stop. There's something in his eyes—something raw and honest that makes my throat tight.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if you get soap in my eyes, I'm stabbing you.”
His laugh echoes off the shower walls. “You keep threatening me with that, nightmare.”
His fingers start massaging my scalp, I feel something inside me crack open. My eyes flutter shut against my will.
“That's it,” he murmurs, working the shampoo into a lather. “Let go for me.”
His fingers are strong, methodical, finding knots of tension I didn't even know existed.
“You're good at this,” I admit reluctantly.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Had practice. Three little girl cousins.”
“Is that what I am to you? A little girl you have to take care of?”
His hands pause, then slide down to grip my shoulders. When I open my eyes, his face is inches from mine, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes.
“You know damn well what you are to me,” he says, his voice low and rough. “And it's nothing so innocent as that.”
I smirk. “Yeah? What am I then?”
His thumb traces my bottom lip, leaving a trail of soap bubbles.
“My nightmare. My fucking salvation.” He tilts my head back under the stream, his fingers tangled in my hair, rinsing away the suds.
Water cascades down my face, washing away more than just shampoo—washing away the night, the blood, the kill. For a moment, I feel almost clean.
His eyes never leave mine as he works. When the last of the bubbles disappear down the drain, his hands still cradle my head, thumbs brushing my temples.
“Maren,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
Then his mouth is on mine, desperate and demanding. Not asking but taking. His lips crush against mine with such force I stumble back against the tile wall, the cold shock of it making me gasp. He swallows the sound, pressing his body against mine, and all I feel is how hard he is all over.
When I bite his bottom lip, his groan vibrates through me as his hands slide down to grip my hips, lifting me slightly off my feet. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back.
The shower beats down on us, hot water turning to steam that fills my lungs with each ragged breath. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point. I dig my nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in his skin.
“Tell me again,” I demand, my voice barely recognizable. “Tell me what I am to you.”
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, water streaming down his face. “Everything,” he says, the word punched out of him. “You're fucking everything.”
His kiss this time is different—slower, deeper, like he's trying to crawl inside me. One hand braces against the wall beside my head while the other slides between our bodies, finding me where I'm already slick and ready.
“Christ, Maren,” he breathes against my mouth. “You're going to be the death of me.”
I laugh, the sound sharp and breathless. “That a promise?”
His fingers curl inside me, making my head fall back against the tile with a thud. “Maybe we'll be the death of each other.”
“Perfect,” I gasp as he hits that spot that makes my vision blur. “Wouldn't want it any other way.”
Just as his mouth finds mine again, my stomach lets out a vicious growl that echoes off the shower walls.
Riggs pulls back, a laugh escaping him. “Jesus Christ, was that you or a grizzly bear I just heard?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, feeling heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the shower.
He presses his forehead against mine, still chuckling. “C'mon, I need to feed the beast before it devours us both.” His fingers trace a teasing pattern down my side. “We can finish this after you're properly fueled.”
I roll my eyes but don't argue. The hunger pangs twisting my stomach are impossible to ignore now that they've made themselves known.
We finish showering quickly, all business now as we rinse off the last traces of soap. I step out first, grabbing two towels from the rack and tossing one at his head. He catches it with irritating ease.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
I don't dignify that with a response.
Five minutes later, I'm padding into the kitchen in a faded hockey t-shirt and towel-drying my hair. Riggs is already there, shirtless with gray sweats hanging low on his hips, opening cabinets and peering inside.
I perch on one of the barstools at the counter, watching as he rummages through my refrigerator. He emerges with eggs, a slightly wilted pepper, and a block of cheese that I don't remember buying.
“Omelet it is,” he declares, grabbing a knife from the drawer.
There's something hypnotic about watching him cook. He cracks eggs with one hand, whisks them with a fork, and dices the pepper with swift, sure strokes.
“Where'd you learn to cook?” I ask, resting my chin on my palm. I’ve been curious about it but pancake night definitely was not the time to ask.
“My mom and aunt worked nights,” he says, not looking up from the cutting board. “Our dads weren’t around. Someone had to feed my cousins.”
I watch his hands as he pours the eggs into the sizzling pan. Steady hands. Killer's hands now. Because of me.
Maybe I should feel guilty for that. For dragging him into this life, this darkness. For showing him how easy it is to take a life, to play god. For turning him into the kind of monster people whisper about. The kind they fear.
But I don't.
The truth sits in my chest like a stone: I don't feel bad at all.
There's something perfect about him standing in my kitchen after washing blood off his skin. Something felt right about the way he moved tonight, as if he was born for this. Born for me.
His eyes meet mine over the sizzle of eggs, and I know he understands. A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerous and thrilling.
The omelet slides perfectly onto a plate. He repeats the process for the second one, then carries both to the island. Sliding one in front of me, he takes the seat beside me rather than across. Our knees touch under the counter.
“Eat,” he says, picking up his fork.
I cut into the fluffy eggs. Steam rises from the perfectly cooked omelet, cheese stretching in gooey strings. The first bite is heaven, and I realize how hungry I actually am.
“Good?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod, mouth full. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are our forks against the plates and the occasional appreciative noise from my throat.
“You know what's fucked up?” I say finally, pushing a piece of pepper around my plate.
“What's that?”
“This is the most normal I've felt in years.” I gesture between us with my fork. “Sitting here. Eating breakfast for dinner with someone. After what we just did.”
He chews thoughtfully, considering this. “Maybe it's because you're not pretending anymore.” His eyes when they meet mine are clear and knowing. “You're not wearing a mask with me.”
“And that doesn't terrify you?”
“Would I be here if it did?”
I take another bite, letting the question hang between us. “Most people would run screaming from what we are.”
“I'm not most people.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “And neither are you.”
His hand finds my thigh under the counter, warm and possessive. Not demanding, just...there. Connected.
The truth is, I recognize something in Riggs that was there long before he met me. A capacity for violence that's been waiting for permission to surface. I didn't create the darkness in him; I just gave it a place to breathe.
Almost as if he can tell I’ve got a million thoughts running through my head, and all of them revolve around him. He voices something to assuage any lingering guilt I may have.
“You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do,” he says quietly, like he's reading my thoughts. “You know that, right?”
I shrug. “Maybe. But normal people don't want to do the things we do.”
“Who the fuck wants to be normal?” He takes another bite. “Besides, I was never going to be one of the good guys. Not really.”
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. There's something refreshing about his self-awareness.
“You done?” he asks, nodding at my empty plate.
I push it toward him. “Yeah.”
Riggs stands, collecting both our plates and carrying them to the sink. It should feel strange considering what we just did an hour ago. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural thing in the world now.
Water runs as he rinses the plates, squirting dish soap onto a sponge. His back muscles flex with each movement, the dim kitchen light casting shadows that highlight every ridge and valley.
“What would you want?” he asks suddenly, not turning around. “If you weren't...here or doing this.”
The question catches me off guard. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I open my mouth to give a flippant answer, but something in the set of his shoulders stops me. He's not looking at me, giving me space to think, to answer honestly.
“Something small,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended. “Quiet. Somewhere, no one says my name like a curse.”
The confession hangs in the air between us, more vulnerable than I meant it to be. I wait for him to laugh, to make a joke, to break the tension.
Instead, he keeps washing, his movements methodical. “I love you,” he says, like he's commenting on the weather. Like it's the most natural thing in the world to say while elbow-deep in soapy water.
My heart does a weird stutter-step. “What?”
He glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “You heard me.”
“Say it again.” The demand comes out before I can stop it.
Riggs turns fully now, suds dripping from his hands onto the floor.
“I love you,” he repeats, slower this time.
“Not because of what you've done. Not in spite of it either. Just...you. All of it. Every beautiful, broken, jagged piece of you. You’re a mosaic of all these things, and if you can’t see how you belong in chapels to be worshipped at, then just know you’re my place of worship, Maren Marino. ”
I freeze.
His words hang in the air between us. I wait for the panic to set in, for my instinct to run, to deflect with some smart-ass comment.
It doesn’t come.
The world stops spinning, and the air in my lungs turns solid.
I love you. Every beautiful, broken, jagged piece of you.
Riggs showing up at my door with takeout and watching trash TV with me. Riggs texting me stupid memes at three in the morning because he knew I'd be awake. Riggs having food delivered when I was avoiding him. All of these things, and I’m not even factoring in the way he’s helped me with bodies.
How he’s kept my secrets. As if he locked them up in a box and threw away the key. And the box is right in his chest.
Love. That's what it was. That's what it's always been.
I uncurl myself from the barstool and cross to the sink where he stands waiting, his eyes never leaving mine. Water drips from his hands onto the linoleum floor, leaving small puddles at his feet. His face is open, vulnerable in a way that terrifies me more than any violence ever could.
I reach for him, my hands finding his jaw, turning his face fully to mine.
His stubble is rough against my palms, his skin still warm from the shower.
For a minute, I just look at him—really look—at the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, at the small scar above his eyebrow, at the mouth that has whispered both threats and tenderness against my skin.
Then I kiss him. Hard. Like it's the only language I know. Like I'm drowning, and his mouth is air.
His hands are still wet when they grip my waist, leaving damp prints on my t-shirt. He makes a sound in the back of his throat—half growl, half surrender—as he backs me against the counter, lifting me onto it in one fluid motion.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, my fingers tangling in his still-damp hair. Everything else falls away—the night's violence, the blood, the death. There's only this. Only us.