Chapter 26
THE END
GRAYSON
What beats a perfect death?
Faking a perfect death.
It’s not an easy feat. It takes time. Preparation. Skills. And an accomplice who is apprised in manipulation tactics that rival the most intelligent law officials.
I pull London inside one of the cells.
“We might get trapped in here,” she says, her voice breathy, but her eyes are wide in excitement, those golden flecks sparkling.
“I could do time with you, baby,” I wrap her in an embrace, bringing her close, and try to conceal the pain touching her causes me.
She’s never fooled. She immediately rolls my sleeves back to inspect.
The scars on my arms are covered in new red and silvery slashes. The razor cuts are still sensitive, the poison leaving behind a permanent imprint on my nerve endings.
“The pain will subside with time,” London says, tentatively touching the wounds. She lifts her gaze to mine. “Any lingering side effects? Dizziness, paralysis?”
A grin curves my mouth. “Always the good doctor.”
She goes to say something more, and I slant my mouth over hers, stealing her breath and inhaling her deeply.
It’s ironic that, what got me tried and found guilty, would also set me free. Corpus delicti. Body of the crime. It’s difficult to prove a death occurred without a body—but not impossible. Substantial circumstantial evidence is needed, and a witness.
A witness to observe the death is always helpful.
The psychotic FBI agent, obsessed with his capture rate, designed a death trap in the copycat manner to end my life, and he did. Grayson Pierce Sullivan is no more.
I now go by Cain Owen Hensley. That’s what it states on my fashioned ID.
I thought it was fitting, seeing as Cain killed Abel and then was doomed to wander the world aimlessly. Except I’m not aimless in my wandering. Not anymore.
I have a very specific destination.
And right now, that destination is wearing the most tempting fucking skirt. London sees the predatory intent in my eyes before I strike.
In one quick move, I have her chest pinned to the wall, my hand clamped over her mouth to catch her breathy gasp, my other dragging that skirt up her thighs.
“You wore this for me,” I murmur, voice low, my lips brushing her ear. “You knew I’d have to be inside you.”
Her body trembles against mine, her moan muffled beneath my palm as I shove her panties aside and slide my fingers into her with a deep groan.
“Fuck, you’re already soaked for me.”
She arches her back in answer, grinding her ass against my groin, and I nip her ear. “I missed you, too, baby,” I whisper, then tear her panties away, making her buck at the force.
I unclasp my jeans and pull myself out. Her thighs part in anticipation, and I thrust into her—slow, hard—all the way to the fucking hilt.
She unleashes a soft cry beneath my hand, clenching so goddamn tight around me, any restraint I held snaps. My next thrust is fast, rough, unguarded, making up for every second we were apart.
Arm caging her, I fuck her against the wall like a heathen. Every movement brutal, and reverent. Her hand slides over mine where it’s braced on the wall. Our fingers lace together, knuckles scraping against the coarse stone to offer a layer of pain to the consuming pleasure.
My mouth seeks the soft slope of her neck and I bite down, claiming her all over again. “Mine,” I growl against her skin. “Every beautiful fucking inch of you, London.”
Her moans deepen, muffled and desperate, as I feel her tighten around me. I drop my hand from her mouth to hear her breathe my name in her throaty, broken cadence as she crashes against me.
The feel of her falling apart beneath me tears my orgasm free, and I bury myself deep, pulsing against her clenched walls. I groan against her neck, shuddering through the onslaught as I utter her name like a vow.
We breathe hard against each other as we come down, bodies trembling.
“I missed you,” she whispers, and I wrap my arms around her tight, never letting go.
“I can’t believe you chose Alcatraz,” London says as we board the ferry back to the mainland. “You’re disturbed, Grayson.”
A wry smile pulls at my mouth. “I was always curious if I could escape it.”
As we watch the island get smaller in the distance, London turns to me. “Well, lucky for us, you’ll never have to find out.”
I place a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll try to stay out of prison.”
“Oh, I know you will, Cain. Because I’m setting the ground rules now.”
My smile widens. “Yes, doctor.”
I have no choice but to trust her on that. She’s the one who designed my death, after all. I owe every bit of my freedom to her.
While London was crafting the trap, I rigged the container unit with an inner-glass chamber that not only provided a stabilized environment for the concentrated solution, but also housed a separate compartment, obscured from view.
Once the lift arms lowered beyond a certain level, it pulled a cord that dragged the container lid farther back, exposing the compartment.
Which to anyone else, simply looked like part of the contraption.
But it was my safety net for the fall.
Being off by even an inch could’ve killed or exposed me. I had to be angled precisely, so that Nelson tumbled to the solution, and I could use his dead weight to propel myself away and land in the compartment.
I then had ten minutes to make it to a storage unit in London’s name and administer the antidote she concocted. Seems she had a scientist friend in the forensics’ department who enjoyed a challenge, and enjoyed money even more.
The key to the antidote is under the container.
Her whispered words to me right before she pressed the knife to my neck.
Then she sank the blade into Nelson and pushed us to our deaths.
Perfectly planned and executed.
And yet, it was more than a gamble. Anything could’ve gone wrong. Foster may have not arrived in time, responding to London’s urgent text too late. He could’ve brought police with him, giving us too many witnesses to construct our narrative.
Foster’s broken arm might not have delayed his climb to the top of the container, giving us less time to eliminate Nelson, or for me to make my escape.
I’m still uneasy about the way it went down; trusting too much to chance. But change and acceptance are a part of becoming a couple. A duo. A team.
And that’s all there is.
Fin.
Endings suck. Why shouldn’t they. We’re sad when life ends. We’re disappointed when something good comes to an end. No one wants an ending; we’re designed to want to last forever. So very difficult to bring an end to something brilliant that’s taken a lifetime to build.
For London and I, it should’ve been tragic.
All epic love stories have a tragic ending. The classic failure of two great souls is what makes their brief union passionate. Intense. Epic. And everyone enjoys a good love story. Give the audience what it wants, so the story can end without dispute. A finale with a standing ovation.
I study London’s profile as she gazes across the bay. She is stunning, breathtaking. My dark goddess. My angel and savior.
“Mo anam cara,” I whisper across her lips before I pull her into a searing kiss.
There is one loose end…but I’ve decided not to tug at that thread. London was the architect, and she waited until we were in the moment before she revealed the poison aspect of the trap.
I smile against her mouth. Maybe she thought I’d enjoy the surprise. Maybe it was a late addition to the trap. Or maybe she was waiting until the big reveal of my life before she made her final choice.
She won’t talk about it. And I won’t pull that thread. But I believe she went to Ireland to find that answer. She knew there might be a chance she’d have to sever our relationship.
I take her hand in mine and lace our fingers. Locked together.
The madness is held back for now. The fear that my genes will ravish my mind one day is never too far from my thoughts. Even so, London’s presence helps hold the compulsive thoughts at bay.
Because I know, if that day ever comes, London won’t fail me. She’ll give us the tragic ending our epic love story truly deserves.