Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
freddie
My hands are still shaking; not from fear, but from leftover adrenaline. From the satisfaction of watching Trace Harrington's eyes go wide when he realized his time was up.
Blood's caked under my fingernails. Splattered across my shirt. All of it belongs to him.
The porch light flicks on as I approach the front door. Tríona must have heard the car. She's probably been watching from the window, waiting, worrying herself sick despite all my promises.
Smart girl. She knows what kind of business I went to handle tonight.
The door opens before I can reach for my keys.
"Freddie?" Her voice is small, uncertain. Then her eyes find the blood and her face goes white. "Jesus, what happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." I step inside, close the door, and turn every lock. "It's over."
"What's over?"
"Trace." I meet her eyes, letting her see the finality there. "He's gone. He'll never hurt you again."
The relief that crosses her face is immediate and overwhelming. Her knees actually buckle, and I catch her against my chest before she can fall.
"He's really dead?" she whispers.
"Very."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me. I'm sure."
She pulls back to look at me, taking in the blood that's not mine, the cuts on my hands, the exhaustion I'm carrying like lead in my bones.
"You're safe," I tell her, cupping her face. "We're both safe. It's finished."
"How do you know he didn't—"
"Because I watched him die. Because I made sure he could never come back, never threaten you or anyone else again."
The words settle between us, heavy with implication. She knows what I am, what I'm capable of, but seeing the evidence of it painted across my clothes is different.
"Thank you," she says finally.
"For what?"
"For keeping your promise. For coming home."
I kiss her then, soft and desperate, tasting relief and love and the future we can finally have without looking over our shoulders.
"Come on," she says, taking my hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."
* * *
The bathroom fills with steam as she runs the shower, testing the temperature with careful fingers. I watch her move around the small space, setting out towels, checking that we have everything we need.
She's nervous. I can see it in the way she's avoiding eye contact, in the quick, efficient movements that are more about having something to do with her hands than actual necessity.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"I want to." She turns to face me, chin lifted in that stubborn way that always makes my chest tight. "Let me take care of you."
"It's a lot of blood."
"I've seen blood before."
"Not like this."
"Freddie." She steps closer and places her palm flat against my chest. "I know what you did tonight. I know what you had to do. And I'm not running."
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not." Her fingers start working the buttons of my shirt. "So shut up and let me help you."
The shirt hits the floor in a wet, crimson heap. When we're both naked, she takes my hand and leads me under the spray.
The water runs red at first, swirling around the drain like something out of a nightmare. But her hands are gentle as they move over my skin, washing away the evidence of violence, of justice served.
"Was it quick?" she asks quietly.
"No."
"Good."
The simple word, the satisfaction in her voice, it reminds me why I fell for this woman. She's not squeamish about the reality of our world. She doesn't pretend that monsters deserve mercy.
Her fingers work shampoo through my hair, nails scratching lightly against my scalp. The sensation is so normal, so domestic, that it's almost jarring after the night I've had.
"Did he say anything?" she asks. "At the end?"
"He begged."
"For his life?"
"For forgiveness. For mercy. For all the things he never gave his victims."
"And you?"
"I gave him exactly what he gave Murphy. What he planned to give you."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing. The water's running clear now, the worst of the blood washed away.
"Do you regret it?" she asks.
"No. Do you?"
"No." Her voice is firm, certain. "He made his choices. You made yours."
I turn in her arms and study her face in the steam and spray. "Most women would run from a man like me."
"Most women haven't lived the life I have."
"And what life is that?"
"One where good men are rare and worth fighting for when you find them."
"You think I'm good?"
"I think you're mine. And that's all that matters."
Her hands slide down my chest, over the scars that map my history. Some old, some new, all of them stories she's heard in pieces over the time we've been together.
"You're beautiful," she murmurs.
"I'm a killer."
"You're my killer."
The possessiveness in her voice sends heat straight through me. After the night I've had, after the violence and blood and death, her acceptance feels like absolution.
"Tríona—"
"I love you," she says, rising on her toes to press her lips to mine. "All of you. Every dark, dangerous, protective part."
The kiss is soft at first, tentative. But when I respond, when my hands tangle in her wet hair and pull her closer, it deepens into something hungrier.
Need. Relief. Celebration that we're both alive, both whole, both here.
"I love you too," I whisper against her mouth. "More than I've ever loved anything."
Her response is to press closer, skin to skin, until there's no space left between us. The water beats down on our shoulders as she maps my body with her hands, relearning every inch like she's making sure I'm really here.
"You came back to me," she breathes.
"Always will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I lift her then, press her back against the tile wall. She wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, trusting me to hold her up.
"I was so scared," she admits against my ear.
"Of what?"
"That you'd lose yourself in the violence. That you'd go so far into the dark I wouldn't be able to pull you back."
"Never." I cup her face and force her to meet my eyes. "You're my anchor. My way home. Nothing's more important than getting back to you."
“Show me.”
Her voice is soft—pleading—but it cuts deeper than any scream.
“What?” I ask, even though I know.
“Show me I still have you. That the man who walked out tonight is the same one who came back.”
There’s no answer I could give with words that would mean enough.
So I kiss her.
Hard. Deep. Consuming.
I pour everything I can’t say into the press of my mouth against hers. Guilt. Love. Devotion. I taste the salt of earlier tears, the echo of pain I caused, and the warmth that still lingers between us like a thread unbroken.
She tastes like forgiveness. Like a place I never want to leave again.
Her body melts against mine, and when I press her gently to the slick tile, she doesn’t resist. Just opens for me as if she was always meant to.
When I slide into her, slow, careful, reverent, she gasps my name like it’s sacred. Her nails dig into my shoulders, anchoring us together.
And God, she feels like peace.
I set a rhythm that’s unhurried, meant to connect not conquer. Each thrust is measured, meant to remind her of who she is to me.
“You’re so good to me,” she whispers, voice trembling. “So careful.”
“You’re precious,” I murmur against her jaw. “You deserve careful. You deserve the kind of love that doesn’t just take, but stays.”
Her breath hitches. I feel the ripple of emotion in her body before she speaks.
“Even after tonight?” she asks, voice breaking. “Even knowing what I’m capable of wanting?”
“Especially then.”
My hand comes up to cradle the side of her face, thumb tracing the damp line of her cheekbone. Her eyes—open, shining, vulnerable—lock on mine.
“You are everything,” I say, letting the words settle. “Everything.”
Her body starts to tremble around me, tension building, pulse racing. I feel it in the way her breath shortens, the way her thighs tense, the soft keening noise at the back of her throat.
But I don’t let her fall. Not yet.
I slow. Soften. Let her sit right there, on the edge, suspended.
“Freddie,” she breathes, head tipping back against the tile.
“I’ve got you.”
“I know. I can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“How much you love me. It’s in your touch. Your voice. The way you hold me.”
“You’re right.” I press my lips to her throat, inhaling her. “You’re mine.”
Her breath stutters.
“So are you,” she whispers.
I let my hand wrap gently around her throat, not squeezing, just holding. Just letting her feel my control. My protection. My claim.
She gasps, lips parting in surrender, body arching into mine.
“You like this?” I ask, voice low, against her ear.
“Yes,” she breathes. “God, yes.”
“Say it.”
“That I’m yours?”
“Yes.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, voice trembling. “Completely. Forever.”
“And I am?”
“Mine,” she says, fiercer this time. “You’re mine, Freddie.”
“That’s right.”
I tighten my grip just slightly, watching the way her pupils dilate, the soft flush blooming across her chest. She’s panting now, desperate, needy, clenching around me.
I move again, deeper this time. Steady. Possessive.
Steam clings to us, the shower long forgotten. Just skin, breath, and want.
She cries out as the angle shifts and I hit that spot that unravels her.
“That’s it,” I murmur, lips brushing her mouth. “Let me hear you.”
“The men—”
“Fuck the men. Let them know you’re mine.”
The possessiveness in my voice sends a visible shudder through her. She clenches around me like she never wants to let go.
I slow, cruelly, just enough to make her whimper.
“Say it again,” I growl.
“I’m yours. I’m yours, Freddie. Please—”
“Good girl.”
She shatters.
It hits her like a wave, her whole body seizing with the force of it. She cries my name, legs trembling, arms locked around me like she’ll come undone if she lets go.
I follow her seconds later, coming hard, my face buried in her neck, breath ragged as I spill into her.
We don’t move.
The water cools, running in rivulets over our skin. But the warmth between us doesn’t fade.
She’s still clinging to me.
And I hold her tighter.
Like I never intend to let her go again.
"Better?" she asks.
"Much."
"I need you to remember something."
"What's that?"
"This. Us. How it feels to be loved without condition."
"Why?"
"Because there will be other nights like tonight. Other monsters who need killing. And I need you to know that no matter how dark it gets, no matter what you have to do, you'll always have this to come home to."
I pull back to look at her, studying the fierce determination in her eyes.
"You're not going anywhere?" I ask.
"Where would I go? You're my home, Freddie. The only one that matters."
"Even knowing what I am?"
"Especially knowing what you are."
The water's cold now, but neither of us moves to shut it off. We're too caught up in each other, in the relief of being together and safe and whole.
"I killed him with my bare hands," I tell her quietly.
"Good."
"I tore his throat out like an animal."
"He deserved worse."
"I felt nothing. No guilt, no regret. Just satisfaction."
"As you should."
Her easy acceptance of my violence, of the monster that lives inside me, is almost overwhelming. Most people would be horrified. She's proud.
"You're incredible," I murmur.
"I'm yours."
"Yes, you are."
I kiss her again, softer this time. Grateful. The water's turned cold enough to make us both shiver, so I finally reach around her to shut it off.
"Come on," I say. "Let's get you warm."
We dry off together, her hands gentle as she tends to the cut on my arm. It's not deep; barely needs the stitches she insists on giving it, but I let her fuss. She needs to take care of me as much as I need to be taken care of.
"There," she says, tying off the bandage. "Good as new."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not being afraid of me."
"I am afraid of you." She looks up, meeting my eyes. "But not in the way you think."
"What way then?"
"I'm afraid of how much I love you. How far I'd go to keep you. How empty my life would be without you."
"You'll never have to find out."
"Promise?"
"I promise. No matter what comes next, no matter who tries to hurt us, I'll always come home to you."
She nods, satisfied. We dress in comfortable clothes and move to the bedroom, where the sheets smell like her perfume and safety.
"How do you feel?" she asks as we settle into bed.
"Tired. Relieved. Clean."
"Clean?"
"Like I washed away something that's been poisoning us for months."
"Trace."
"Trace. His threats, his games, his hold over our lives. It's finished."
She curls against my side, head on my chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"Now we live. Really live, without looking over our shoulders."
"Sounds nice."
"It will be. I promise."
"I love you, Freddie."
"I love you too. More than anything in this world."
Being wrapped in each other's arms, we finally allow ourselves to imagine a future without fear.
It's a good feeling.
The best feeling.
And tomorrow, when the sun rises on our first day of freedom, we'll start building that future together.
One day at a time.
One moment at a time.
One kiss at a time.
But tonight, we're just two people who found each other in the darkness and refused to let go.
Tonight, that's everything.