Chapter Twenty-Four
Juliet
I can’t believe how perfect my men are.
It’s like Elliot has been here forever.
I barely remember the house without him, and honestly? I don’t want to.
It’s only been a few weeks, but he’s settled in so easily.
His own room, his books stacked neatly in the office, his coffee cup left in the sink in the morning. Little things that say, he’s ours.
He joins Orion and me to watch Noah play open mic nights. He sits in the café where Noah works, reading some deep, pretentious novel while sipping coffee Noah made just right.
He may be the newest, our baby, but he’s slipped so perfectly into the daddy role.
And I think, we all needed that.
Everything is so fucking good.
I actually start to believe nothing can ruin it.
And then?
Fucking Tammy.
Even dead, she’s an absolute pain in my ass.
“They questioned me for fucking hours,” Orion growls, pacing the living room like a caged animal. His jaw is tight, his hands flexing. “I was working every night. Solid fucking alibi. And yet.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m the ex. And that crazy bitch had texts of her begging me to take her back.”
I sit back against the couch, pressing my fingers to my temple. Jesus Christ, Tammy.
“They pulled you in over some texts?” I ask.
Orion drags a hand through his hair, looks ready to rip something apart. “No. Someone broke into her house and wrote some shit on her mirror. So now, guess what?” He stops pacing long enough to lock eyes with me. “They want to talk to you.”
I tilt my head. “Oh.”
That’s not ideal.
“They asked around work when they were checking my alibi,” Orion continues, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off a fight. “Someone said they saw you and me arguing with her.”
I narrow my eyes. Nosy fuckers.
Orion exhales and steps into my space, pulling me against him, solid and protective. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
I wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his chest. I hate that this is stressing him out.
But also? If that bitch weren’t already dead, I’d kill her myself.
“How did she die?” I ask, voice soft.
Orion sighs. “No clue. They didn’t say. Just that she’d been dead a while. Neighbors finally called it in because of the smell.”
The smell.
Rotting in that little shithole of hers.
I hum, running my hands over his back. “So they’re guessing time of death,” I say, thoughtful. “That’s interesting.”
Orion stiffens slightly. Just a flicker. A heartbeat of hesitation. He exhales, dragging his teeth along his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he mutters. “And if they don’t know for sure, how the fuck can anyone alibi the time of death?”
I nod. Exactly.
“Well, I’m always at work, the gym, or with you or Noah. So the whole time frame? I’m covered,” he says.
I lift my head and smile up at him. He’s so smart.
“So are you, sweetheart,” he says.
I sigh. “Well. Not always.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. Casual. “I was researching Elliot during a lot of that time,” I admit. “So I wasn’t here.”
Orion stills. Just for a second. Then he steps back, searching my face.
And I can actually see the exact moment it clicks.
“Shit,” he says. His voice drops, low and rough, something between disbelief and awe.
I smile. Sweet. “She was awful to you, Orion,” I say simply. “Out of line. Unacceptable.”
His nostrils flare slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.
He doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he tilts his head, studying me like I’m some puzzle he’s trying to solve.
And then?
He exhales, laughs. Not a normal laugh. A low, dark, knowing chuckle.
“You were here with me the whole time,” he says. “Any time they ask? We were together. Or with Noah.”
And just like that?
I am covered.
Because Orion is mine. I am his.
And Orion will always protect what’s his.
Noah and Elliot stroll in.
Orion looks at me. Not mad. Not scared. Just… questioning.
I smile. Sweet. Loving. Reassuring.
I walk straight to them, kiss them each on the jaw.
“There’s an issue,” I say.
Elliot immediately tenses.
Noah just sighs.
“Really?” Noah says, rubbing his forehead like a tired husband whose wife just maxed out another credit card. “Are you in love with another one, already?”
“No, not that.” I wave a hand, dismissing the idea I’ve found another man. But it could happen, so I add, “And if it were that, that’s not an issue.”
“There’s been an unfortunate incident with Orion’s ex,” I start. “The police want to talk to me because some nosy nitwit at school saw me take the bitch down for touching him.”
Noah groans and flops down onto the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it like it’s his emotional support animal.
Elliot steps in like the goddamn therapist he is. A hand on my waist. Firm. Calming. “Is she pressing charges?” he asks, voice steady, patient. “Did you hit her?”
Orion chuckles. Dark. Knowing.
“I didn’t hit her.” I shake my head. “Not at that point. I just firmly removed her hands from him, and she flailed around like I broke her fingers or something.”
Orion shrugs. “She was a real lunatic drama queen.”
“She was,” I agree.
Elliot tilts his head, eyes sharp. Studying.
“Not at that point?” Noah asks.
Oh, my sweet love. So innocent.
I take a breath. “She’s dead.”
Noah blinks.
“The cops found her stinking corpse because, shocker, no one missed her,” I say.
Silence.
Then, Orion sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Christ, it’s a mess.”
“Now, apparently, they need Orion and me to account for god only knows how much time. Unfortunately, I can’t account for my time because I was mostly busy following Elliot.” I beam and touch Elliot’s jaw.
He’s so handsome.
So sophisticated.
And so fucking speechless right now.
“Following me?” Elliot echoes, like he’s just realizing I’ve been studying him this whole time.
Orion smirks. “She follows all of us. She’s very finicky. Needs to evaluate before she decides.”
Elliot raises a single, disbelieving brow.
“Don’t be too flattered,” Orion adds, grinning. “Her notes on Noah are novels. My file? A pamphlet. Yours? Brochure.”
I huff. “Okay, first of all, I had a full notebook on you and Elliot.”
Noah snickers into the pillow. “She’s defensive about her research.”
I point at him. “You were my first. I took more notes. I had to get you perfect.”
Elliot exhales. Then, so goddamn casually asks, “How did you kill her?”
I barely hesitate. “Baseball bat to her thick head.”
Oops.
I slap my hand over my mouth.
Orion chokes on a laugh.
Noah mutters, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
And Elliot?
Elliot drags in a slow breath. His fingers trace little circles on my back. Soft. Thoughtful.
Like he’s not even fazed.
Like he’s just processing.
Instead of reaching for his phone, calling the cops, and turning me in…
He leans in. “Do we need to get rid of the bat still?”
My whole body warms.
Because I love him.
I kiss his jaw, sighing. “Already taken care of, sir.”
Orion laughs so hard he has to sit down.
Noah tosses a pillow at my face.
And Elliot just smirks.
Like he knew this was inevitable.
Like he knew, from the second I walked up to him in that restaurant, that he was fucked.
“What’s the plan?” Noah asks.
I wave a hand, dismissive. “We don’t need a plan.”
Orion raises a brow, clearly skeptical.
“If I wasn’t at work, the gym, or school, I was with you, or Orion, or…” I turn, meeting Elliot’s gaze.
His mouth quirks up slightly. “Or me.”
I beam. Exactly.
They have me covered.
“I’ll go chat with the police, and it’ll be done and over.” I shrug like this is nothing. Because it is nothing. Just a minor inconvenience. A messy detail to smooth out.
Elliot tilts his head, studying me. “You sure you want to go alone?”
“It’d look weird if I dragged in all my alibis like an entourage,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Might look guilty.”
Noah sighs, rubbing his temple. “Fine. But you text the second you’re done.”
“Of course, my love,” I say, kissing his cheek.
After a few goodbyes, I grab my purse and head out.
The drive to the police station is uneventful. But my mind?
Still back home.
With them.
The way Noah kissed me, slow and sweet, fingers sliding through my hair like he was memorizing me. The way Orion pressed against me, protective, growling against my neck about how this was bullshit. And Elliot?
Elliot just touched my chin, met my eyes, and said, ‘Tell them what they need to hear, baby doll. And don’t let them waste too much of your time.’
God, I love them.
I sighed the whole way here, thinking about how perfect my life is.
Except for this little speed bump.
I step inside the police station, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
It’s drab as hell.
Smells like stale coffee, sweat, and stress.
The kind of place where time crawls.
There’s a desk up front, cluttered with paperwork, a fingerprinting kit, and one of those stupid cat calendars.
The officer behind it? Bored as hell. Flipping through paperwork, barely looking up when I approach.
“I need to speak with the detective,” I say.
His eyelids move slower than evolution as he looks at me. “And that would be…?”
I pull out my phone, flipping to my notes.
Like I don’t already know. “Whichever one is asking about Tammy Walters. I’m Juliet Lovelace.”
That gets his attention. He gestures lazily to a hard plastic bench against the wall. “Have a seat.”
I glance over.
There are three other people waiting.
A guy in wrinkled khakis and a polo that’s seen better days, sweating through his collar like he’s about to be booked.
An older woman, probably someone’s grandma, holding a purse like it’s a grenade.
And a teenage girl with pink streaks in her hair, arms crossed, glaring at the officer like she’s personally offended by his entire existence.
I look at the bench.
Then back at him.
Then at the bench again.
Would it be rude to take out a sanitizing wipe?
Or… maybe just wipe down the people sitting here?
I sigh, shaking my head.
Fine.
I sit, perching lightly, like I might catch a disease if I put too much weight on the seat.
And now?
I wait.
Because that’s the worst part about dealing with cops.
They always waste your goddamn time.
It feels like forever before the detective walks over.
His nameplate says “Detective Salvatore Grimm.”
Oh, come the fuck on.
That is entirely too on the nose for a homicide detective. I bet he wears a trench coat in the rain and broods over whiskey at night.
I barely have time to admire how ridiculous that is before he gestures for me to follow him.
I step lightly, head high, shoulders back.
He leads me past a row of desks, each one cluttered with paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and those old-ass bulky computers that should’ve been put down in the early 2000s.
There’s a stale, burnt coffee smell in the air, mixed with something faintly metallic. Probably bad cologne, sweat, or shattered dreams.
Detective Grimm stops at a desk that looks like it’s seen better days. The chair creaks when he sits.
I don’t sit until he motions to the chair across from him. Like I need permission.
I smooth my dress as I lower myself, crossing my legs in the most polite, non-murdery way possible.
Grimm folds his hands, eyes sharp. “Juliet Lovelace, correct?”
“That’s me,” I say, bright, friendly.
“And you know why you’re here?” he asks.
“I understand it’s about the woman harassing my boyfriend,” I say, tilting my head like I’m just a little confused but eager to help. “Tammy Walters?”
Grimm doesn’t react. “She was found deceased in her home.”
I gasp softly. Just a little. Like a woman who’s never seen the inside of a police station before.
“Detective,” I say, lowering my voice, “That is awful.”
He doesn’t blink. “How well did you know her?”
“I didn’t,” I say, smoothing my hands over my lap. “I only know she harassed my boyfriend. Came to his work. It was embarrassing, really.”
Grimm leans back in his chair. “How many times did you see her?”
“I only saw her once,” I say sweetly. “At school. When she was harassing Orion.”
His brow ticks up. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I answer.
Grimm presses on.
Questions about Orion, about Tammy, about my schedule, which, quite frankly, is none of his goddamn business.
I keep my answers clean, smooth, perfectly rehearsed. But Jesus Christ, this man is persistent.
I can feel my patience thinning.
Then a man strolls by.
Not a cop.
Not in uniform.
He moves too loose, too casual.
Rough around the edges.
Broad shoulders, tattoos peeking out from beneath the sleeves of a faded t-shirt. Ones that look gang-affiliated. Like the kind of tattoos people get when they’ve murdered someone and the group throws them a party.
He doesn’t stop. Just pats the desk in passing, flicking a smirk at Grimm. “You questioning that sweet girl without an attorney?”
Oh.
Oh.
I like that.
I like him.
Grimm doesn’t even look up. “Move along, Callum.”
Callum.
His name is Callum.
That is disgustingly hot.
I watch as he moves past, disappearing down the hall, and suddenly?
Tammy is not my problem anymore.
Because him?
He’s mine.
“I’ve told you all I know,” I say, crossing my legs, tilting my head like I’ve got far better things to do. “I have so much work to do, Detective. Why don’t you call me if there’s anything else I can help you with? Though, honestly, I simply don’t associate with my boyfriends’ exes.”
Grimm watches me for a long moment, then relents, thank God, because I need to get out of here before Callum fucking vanishes.
I don’t rush. I’m poised, composed, regal. A woman who definitely didn’t just lie about murdering someone with a baseball bat.
But the second I step outside?
I scan the lot, heart sinking.
He’s gone.
Shit. Double shit.
I barely had time to drink him in, to really memorize every gritty, rough-cut detail.
Callum.
He oozed danger.
Excitement.
Something raw and untamed.
Not my usual type. But when he slowed his stride, tossed out that lazy smirk, and stepped between me and Grimm’s bullshit?
God. Damn.
That instant realization that I was precious, that he wanted to step in, shield me.
A real fucking man.
My stomach tightens. My thighs press together.
And then…
“Looking for someone, Juliet Lovelace?” That voice.
Low. Teasing.
I whirl.
He’s perched against the wall.
Smirking.
So fucking menacing.
“Callum,” I say, like I’m testing it. Tasting it.
It sounds so good.
He cocks his head, studying me like a puzzle he plans to take apart with his teeth.
God, he’s tall. Solid. Rough.
A scar cuts through the edge of his brow, like he’s seen more fights than I’ve had men.
And those tattoos?
Now that I can see them up close, they aren’t just gang-affiliated.
No, they’re a full fucking language.
Some I recognize. Some I don’t.
Symbols inked into skin to tell a story.
The kind of marks men earn.
The kind that brand them as something more than human.
Something predatory.
But his eyes?
Oh, fuck me.
They’re green.
And his hair?
Blond. Messy. Perfect.
I don’t have either of those yet.
I tilt my head, studying him back.
What are the chances that a criminal is housebroken?