CHAPTER 24 #2
Her blouse fell away. Then her bra. Dax’s hand—calloused and warm and real—slid up her ribs to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until she gasped.
“Bed,” Quinn said again, more urgently this time.
They fell onto it together. Careful, always careful of Dax’s shoulder. He ended up on his back with Quinn straddling him, her hands braced on either side of his head.
“This okay?” she asked, breathless. “Your shoulder—”
“Perfect.” Dax’s hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt. “You’re perfect.”
Quinn leaned down and kissed him, losing herself in the taste and feel and reality of him. Alive. Here. Hers.
They took their time—no urgency now, no fear driving them. Just the slow exploration of two people who’d almost lost each other and were determined to savor every moment.
Dax’s hand found the places that made Quinn gasp and arch. Quinn’s mouth traced the scars on Dax’s chest, the old ones from Afghanistan and the new one from Wheeler’s bullet. Each mark a story. Each story survived.
When they finally came together, it was with a sense of rightness that Quinn had never felt before. This wasn’t grief sex or desperation sex or fear sex.
This was love. Pure and simple and hard-won.
This was celebration. Victory. Survival.
This was them—broken and scarred and imperfect—choosing each other anyway. Choosing to build something real despite the trauma. Despite the fear. Despite everything.
After, they lay tangled together, Dax’s good arm around Quinn, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Alive.
“I love you,” Quinn said into the comfortable silence. “I know I’ve said it before, but I need you to know…I love you. All of you. Even the overprotective, occasionally insufferable parts.”
Dax’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter. “I love you too. Even the stubborn, reckless, runs-toward-danger parts.”
Quinn’s chest shook with laughter. “We’re a mess.”
Dax kissed her hair. “We’re perfect for each other.”
Quinn lifted her head to look at him. “Are we though? Really? After everything—the cabin, the fight, the way we almost destroyed this before it even started?”
Dax’s hand came up to tuck her hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. “We’re not perfect. But we’re honest now. We’re communicating. We’re working on it.”
It was true. They’d started therapy—both individual and couples. Dax was working through his trauma, his fear of loss, his need to control. Quinn was working through her grief, her own trauma from the kidnapping, her tendency to push boundaries specifically because someone told her not to.
It was hard work. Uncomfortable work. But they were doing it.
“I’m proud of us,” Quinn said softly. “For not giving up. For fighting for this.”
“Me too.” Dax’s fingers traced patterns on her bare shoulder. “And Quinn? I want you to know, I’m going to spend the rest of my life earning your trust. Proving that I can love you without suffocating you. That I can be your partner, not your jailer.”
“You already are.” Quinn kissed his chest, right over his heart. “You let me testify. You didn’t try to keep me away from the trial. You trusted me to handle the media, to make my own choices about the book.”
“It nearly killed me.” Dax’s voice was rueful. “Every time you walked into that courtroom, every time you gave an interview, I wanted to lock you away somewhere safe. But I didn’t. Because you’re right. You’re not mine to control. You’re my partner. My equal.”
“And you’re mine.” Quinn’s hand splayed across his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath her palm. “My partner. My equal. My incredibly brave, slightly reckless hero who went into a warehouse alone to save me.”
“About that.” Dax winced. “I’m probably going to be suspended for another few months. Internal Affairs is still investigating. And Holloway says I’m lucky I’m not being brought up on charges for all the regulations I broke.”
“But you’re not being fired?”
“Probably not. The union’s fighting for me.
And the fact that I saved a civilian’s life, that I took down Wheeler’s operation—that’s weighing in my favor.
” Dax shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable.
“But I’m going to have a desk assignment for a while.
Maybe permanently, depending on how the shoulder heals. ”
Quinn heard the worry in his voice. Being a detective wasn’t just Dax’s job; it was his identity. The thought of losing it, of being relegated to desk work...
“Would that be so terrible?” she asked carefully. “Desk work?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Dax closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ve been in the field my whole career. Afghanistan. Beat cop. Detective. Active duty. And now...I might not pass the physical. Might not have full range of motion in this arm ever again.”
“Then you adapt.” Quinn propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. “You’re brilliant, Dax. You could teach at the academy. Consult on cases. Work in the cold case division. There are so many ways to be a detective that don’t require full physical capability.”
“You sound like my physical therapist.”
“Your physical therapist is right.” Quinn poked him gently in the ribs. “And you know what? If you do end up with a desk job, that means you’re home at reasonable hours. That means less danger. That means I don’t have to worry about you getting shot again.”
“So you’re saying my career-ending injury is a bonus?” he asked ruefully.
“I’m saying we make it work.” Quinn’s voice was firm. “Whatever happens with your career, with my book, with anything, we make it work. Together.”
Dax pulled her down for a kiss. “Together,” he agreed.
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, Quinn’s fingers tracing idle patterns on Dax’s chest, his hand stroking her hair.
Outside, the sun was setting, autumn light slanting through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Soon it would be winter. Snow and cold and the quiet hibernation of a city settling into the darker months.
But here, in this room, everything felt warm. Safe. Right.
“When’s the book coming out?” Dax asked eventually.
“Spring. Manny’s pushing for April. He wants to time it with the sentencing.” Quinn had finished the manuscript two weeks ago, working frantically to capture everything while it was still fresh. “The Times feature runs next month. Casey Flores did an incredible job with it.”
“I read the draft you showed me. It’s powerful, Quinn. Really powerful.”
“It’s the truth. That’s all I wanted. For people to know the truth about what Wheeler did. About what my father tried to stop.” Quinn’s voice caught slightly. “About what you and Clara and everyone else sacrificed to bring him down.”
“Your father would be so proud of you.”
“I hope so.” Quinn thought about the video she’d watched dozens of times now—her father’s face on the screen, his voice strong and clear, telling her to be brave, to be smart, to be safe. “I think about him every day. About what he’d think of all this. Of us.”
“He’d like me,” Dax said with mock confidence.
“He’d think you were overprotective and occasionally insufferable.”
“But lovable.”
“Very lovable.” Quinn smiled against his chest. “And he’d trust you to keep me safe. Which is saying something, because Dad didn’t trust easily.”
They fell quiet again, but it was a peaceful silence. The comfortable quiet of two people who didn’t need to fill every moment with words.
Quinn felt herself drifting, exhaustion from the trial and the emotional rollercoaster of the verdict finally catching up with her.
“Stay with me,” she murmured, already half-asleep.
“Always,” Dax promised, his hand still stroking her hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Quinn believed him.
For the first time in eleven years—since the day she’d lost her father—Quinn Barrett felt safe. Felt whole. Felt like she’d finally found her way home.
Not to a place. But to a person.
To Dax Mercer. Her partner. Her equal. Her stubborn, overprotective, beautiful disaster of a man who’d almost died saving her and would probably do it again in a heartbeat.
And tomorrow, they’d face whatever came next. The sentencing. The media coverage. The next steps in their careers and their relationship.
But tonight, they could just be.
Together.
Safe.
Home.
Quinn’s eyes drifted closed, Dax’s heartbeat steady beneath her ear, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she slept without nightmares.