Chapter Ten #2
When I come, it's with a growl ripped from somewhere deep inside me, my body shuddering as I spill into her, my forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.
For a long moment, the only sound is our ragged breathing. I stay inside her, my weight resting on her lightly, not wanting to let her go. Not ever.
Slowly, I pull out and roll onto my back, pulling her against my side. She curls into me, her face buried in my neck, her body still trembling slightly.
I stroke her hair, my fingers tracing the line of her spine.
"He really knows where I am?" she whispers after a while, her voice small.
"Yeah, baby. He knows."
"And he doesn't think I did it?"
"No. He thinks Burkett's a lying crook."
She's quiet for so long, I think she might have fallen asleep. "I'm scared," she finally whispers.
"I know." I kiss the top of her head, my heart mangled.
The hardest part of loving her isn't trusting her with my heart.
It's knowing that I can't protect hers from feeling the bad shit—like fear.
I'd feel it for her if I could, without a single second of hesitation or regret.
"But I'll be right there with you. Every second. "
She nods against my chest, her hand splaying over my heart. "Okay."
We lie there until her breathing evens out. I think she's finally drifted off when she speaks again.
"Blaze?"
"Yeah, Calamity?"
"Say it again."
I don't have to ask what she means. I turn my head, my lips brushing her temple. "I love you, Morgan. I love you more than I've ever loved anything in my life."
A soft sigh escapes her lips as she relaxes fully against me. "Me too."
She's nervous as hell when we pull up in front of the Sheriff's Office, her whole body vibrating with anxiety. But she slips her hand into mine and lets me lead her inside anyway, giving me more faith than I know what to do with.
Dillon is waiting for us inside his office—his actual office, not his closet.
Morgan clings to me like she's afraid he's going to rip her from my arms and slap cuffs on her.
"Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs, keeping his distance.
"H-hi," she whispers, her voice shaking. "Um…I didn't do it. And I really, really would like to not go to jail."
Dillon's expression softens. "I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen," he promises, his voice somber. "I've already called the prosecutor to request that the charges be dropped. They're finalizing the paperwork."
"Really?" she asks, hope trembling on her lips.
"Really."
She sags against me, like her whole body just lost the ability to hold her up. I pull her close, letting her use my strength when she chokes on a tiny sob, tipping her face up to mine.
Her cheeks are wet, her eyes shining. "I'm not going to prison like my dad," she cries softly.
"Jesus," Dillon mutters.
"Never," I promise, pressing my forehead to hers. I hold her against my chest for a long moment, giving her time to collect herself and process that she's safe. Dillon gives us the moment, not interrupting.
When Morgan finally pulls away, she's smiling brighter than ever.
"How can I help, Sheriff?"
"Call me Dillon."
She blinks wide eyes at him. "I can do that?"
He chuckles, scratching his beard to hide a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can do that."
"Cool," she whispers. "How can I help, Dillon?"
"You were Burkett's maid for a while."
"Six months." She wrinkles her nose. "He leaves streaks in his underwear and then leaves them on the floor."
Well…that's more than I ever needed to know about the man.
"Six months," Dillon says, one brow arched when he looks at me. I just shrug. He asked me to bring her. He can discover for himself what he got himself into. "I need to know what you can tell me about him."
"He needs to wash his ass," she grumbles.
"Aside from that," he says quickly. "Any idea where he may have stashed the jewelry he said you stole?"
"He probably already put it back in the safe in his room," she mutters, scowling. "Or in the one in his office. He has one in the garage, too. There's a lot of other stuff in them, too."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Money, golf balls, a drone, alcohol," she ticks it off on her fingers. "More jewelry."
"What made you think that he'd done this kind of thing before?" Dillon asks, jotting notes.
"Oh, the golf balls. He's always bragging about how he won them at a charity auction and how they're worth a lot of money because they were from the first big golf tournament that some important golf guy won or something.
But I remember reading in the paper about how someone broke into his house last year," she explains.
"The golf balls were listed in the article as stolen during the break-in.
I don't think very many people keep golf balls in a safe, so I think they're the ones that he won and then claimed were stolen. "
Dillon nods thoughtfully. "What else can you tell me?"
"He thinks he's better than everyone," she mutters. "Even the people he calls friends. And he's probably going to die alone because he sucks as a person."
Dillon's lips twitch. "I meant anything else about the insurance scam, Ms. Lott."
"Oh," she says, her tone sheepish. "Nothing really. He didn't really speak to me because I wasn't a person."
"The hell you weren't," I growl.
"I mean, he didn't see me as a person," she amends, rolling her eyes. "To him, I was just part of the background, like a robot created to keep his house clean. He treats everyone who works for him the same way."
I want to throttle the bastard all over again. She never should have been treated that way. Hell will freeze over before she ever is again. If he doesn't go to prison, I'll make running him out of this fucking town my life's mission.
"You got enough?" I ask Dillon, linking my fingers through Morgan's. "I don't want her to have to keep thinking about this prick."
"Yeah." Dillon nods, tossing his pen down. "I think we've got enough." His gaze comes to mine. "We'll get Hamilton to sign off on the warrant to search his place and make sure it includes any safes. Once the prosecutor finishes the paperwork and we've recovered the jewelry, she'll be in the clear."
"And him?" I ask, not willing to let it end there.
"He's raked in over half a million dollars in fraudulent insurance claims from nine different companies in the last ten years," Dillon says. "Even if he tries to plea it down, he's looking at hard time."
"Good," I grunt. I hope the fucker rots.