Epilogue
Louise
“It was so nice of Ciaran to arrange for us to stay here,” I say, flinging open the double doors that lead onto the balcony of the penthouse suite at the O’Reilly Manhattan Hotel. I take a deep breath, drinking in the amazing view of Manhattan from this vantage point.
Draven joins me outside. He brushes my hair away from my face while his gaze searches for the bruises that have long since faded. Six weeks have passed since the night I shot Beresford. Six weeks during which time he sang like a canary, and the FBI cracked four trafficking cells, and took eight senior law enforcement officials into custody from locations across the country. They also rescued more than a hundred women from a life of horror. I don’t regret a thing. If I had my time again, I’d choose exactly the same path. Putting myself in danger had been worth every cut, every punch, every sore and cracked rib.
The passage of time has also allowed me to start grieving for Kiera. I’ll never get over losing my sister, but knowing the men responsible are either dead or in custody soothes my pain a little.
“Yeah, he has his uses,” Draven says.
His phone rings, and he returns to the suite to answer it. Muffled voices reach me, but I can’t make out any actual words. When Draven returns, I instantly know he has big news.
“Beresford is dead.”
My mouth pops open, and my hand flies to my throat. “What?”
“That was Pete on the phone.”
“How did it happen?”
“He hung himself in his cell. At least that’s the official line.”
I arch a brow. “And the unofficial line?”
Draven hitches a shoulder. “I doubt we’ll ever know. But Beresford running his mouth like the pussy he was, resulting in all those high-profile police officers across the country being lifted.” He twists his lips to one side. “I’d say it was only a matter of time before someone shut him up.”
I stare off into the distance, trying to take it in. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”
He slips his arms around my waist, resting his chin on top of my head. “Come to bed.”
I turn in his embrace, and he captures my hands, walking backward. He has that look in his eyes—the one that promises me a hard, rough time.
A pleasurable ache spreads from my abdomen, inching up into my chest. It’s been a long six weeks in recovery, and Draven hasn’t caved once to my subtle—and not so subtle—advances. The man has the most enviable control. If our roles had been reversed, I wouldn’t have managed to resist.
Now, though, he undresses me slowly, removing each article of clothing in a deliberate, measured way, as his hot gaze sends waves of longing rolling through me. Christ, I’ve missed this. Missed him. We barely had a chance to enjoy each other before the case exploded, dragging us both in a direction that hadn’t allowed time for sex.
He removes his own clothes at a much faster pace until he stands before me, inked, muscled, gloriously naked, with his thick, long cock jutting from between that delicious V. I want to climb him like the big oak tree in my parents’ backyard.
I lick my lips, and he does the same.
“How are the ribs?”
He knows the answer, but I’ll play along. “Fully healed.”
“No trace of pain?”
I swallow past a lump of excitement lodged in my throat. “None.”
“Good, because this is gonna be fast and rough.”
A shudder runs down my spine, my core dampening to welcome him. “I do hope so.”
He grips my hips and spins me around. His big palm clamps onto the back of my neck, and he bends me over the bed.
“Brace, Lola,” he says.
I prop my forearms on a fluffy pillow. This angle, low at the chest, ass in the air, gives him the perfect position to thrust into me from behind. One smooth forward movement, and he’s buried balls deep. The breath I held in my lungs comes out of me with a whoosh and a grunt.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding,” I groan.
I fist the sheets as he pounds into me, our brutal coming together a release of pent-up frustration we’ve both hung on to for far too long, forced into an absence of sex by my injuries. Skin slaps against skin, and sweat drips down the nape of my neck and between my breasts as Draven keeps up a consistent, punishing rhythm.
His hand drifts over my hip bone, my waist, and settles on my right breast. “I love your tits,” he rasps, his voice coming in pants, his pace increasing.
“Smooth talker.”
“Wrong guy for that,” he says, releasing my boob to move south.
He flicks my clit repeatedly. The wave starts shallow but builds within a matter of seconds. My core clenches, and I come, hard. Moaning as tiny pulses contract my muscles over and over, I clamp around his dick and bring him to his own crashing orgasm.
“ Fuuuck .” He breathes harshly, gripping my hips as he thrusts into me twice more, then stills. “Shit, Lola. You have a magical pussy.”
I turn my head to the side so I can see him, and grin. “Great tits. Magic pussy. You’re stroking my ego tonight, Draven.”
He pulls out of me. It stings, and I wince. Will my body ever get used to his size, or will it always be like it’s our first time, and I’m a virgin?
Lying on the bed, he taps his thigh, waiting for me to straddle him. When I do, he cups my boobs, then leans up and sucks both my nipples into his warm, wet mouth. I groan and arch my back.
“Give me five and then I’m fucking these,” he says. “I’m gonna slide my dick between your magnificent cleavage and come all over your chest.”
His words send a gush of wetness right to the apex of my thighs, and I rub against his half-mast dick.
“I’m sure you can do better than five minutes. Stud.”
I swaddle the soft robe around my body and tighten the belt when I hear Draven turn off the shower. May as well unpack our things and check my dress doesn’t need pressing. Ciaran’s wife, Millie—who I adored from the second we were introduced—has invited us to their place for dinner this evening.
I lift Draven’s overnight bag off the chair, and his wallet falls out of the side pocket. I lean down to pick it up, and my gaze falls on his driver’s license.
No, it can’t be.
Oh, my God.
I stare at it, an uncontrollable giggle rippling through me. I read it again and again.
Oh, this is priceless.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Draven marches across the room, with his long hair, dripping from the shower, hanging in threads down his back as he rips the wallet from my hands.
“Stay the hell out of my stuff.” He glowers, looming over me, his cheeks blooming a shade of dark red.
“I wasn’t in your stuff,” I reply, trying, and failing, to keep the broad grin from inching across my face. “I lifted your bag off the chair and your wallet fell out.”
“I swear to God, Lola, if you tell a single soul, I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” I counter, daring him to voice a threat, pushing because I like it when he gets mad. Mad Draven equals hot-as-hell Draven, equals punishment sex Draven. My cheeks ache from the breadth of my smile. “You may be able to break my neck with your bare hands, but you don’t scare me, Mar?—”
He slams his hand over my mouth. “Don’t fucking say it. If you want to live to see tomorrow, you’ll never utter that word.”
I shove his hand away, laughing—one of those laughs that starts in the abdomen and bursts out in a fit of delight. “I literally don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”
He stuffs a hand through his hair. “It’s not funny, Lola.”
“Oh, darling Draven. I beg to differ. This beautiful nugget has made my day. Does Ciaran know?”
“No one fucking knows… other than my mother and my sister. And now you.”
An idea steals into my mind, an opportunity to rile him, and one I can’t pass up. “You know, we never agreed on your fee for helping me with the trafficking case.” I clamp down on a grin that threatens. “I think my silence is more than payment enough, don’t you? In fact, I’d say the pendulum has swung in my favor, and now you owe me. ” I tap my forefinger against my lips. “Hmm, now, what shall your payment be for me to take this information to the grave and not, oh I don’t know, spill it over dinner when I’ve had too much wine?”
His menacing glower would have anyone else shaking in their boots, but not me. Not any longer. He narrows his eyes, then stomps over to the window with his hands low on his hips. Droplets of water roll down his spine, disappearing beneath the towel around his waist. There isn’t a spare inch of his back not tattooed. Same with his arms and his chest, although his abs are clear. But it’s his back that fascinates me the most, dominated as it is by the broad expanse of angel wings. I run my gaze over him, my fingers itching to trace the outline of every inch of ink.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Name your price.”
I grin. He hates to lose, even when his loss is my victory. I join him, giving him a playful nudge. “Stand down, worry wart. I won’t tell anyone. So, this name of yours. Was it passed down from an ancestor or something?”
“Or something,” he grits out.
“Draven…”
He shoots me a fierce glare. “No.”
“It wasn’t like a family tradition, then?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” I wrinkle my nose, swallowing a giggle. “It’s not exactly common. Your parents must have had a good reason to give you such an unusual name.”
He straightens his posture, his spine stiffening. “No, they didn’t.” He grunts. “It’s a stupid, dumbass reason. Even my mother admits that now.” He turns away, giving me his profile.
My stomach flips at the strength of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones, and that long hair I love to bury my hands in when we fuck. And I realize, in this moment, that it bothers him. It truly bothers him, which means now I feel like an asshole.
“Hey.” I cup his cheek, urging him to look at me. “What your parents wrote on your birth certificate doesn’t matter, Draven. It’s just a name.” I trace a fingertip over the tattoo on his bicep bulging from his crossed arms.
He keeps his attention out the window, but there’s a definite softening to his anger.
“Did you get bullied at school?”
He barks a laugh. “Early on, yeah, but then I had a growth spurt and overtook every guy in my class. Weirdly, the bullying stopped then, especially after I busted one kid’s nose.” He shrugs. “Making an example of someone is usually a great way to draw a line in the sand.”
“True that.” I risk another glance at him. “Still, we’ve made a deal now. My lips are sealed.”
“It’s not your lips I’m worried about. It’s your fucking untamed tongue.”
I chuckle. “You have my permission to remove my tongue if I ever breathe a word.”
“If you do, I won’t need your fucking permission. I’ll rip the damn thing right out of your head.”
I bump my shoulder against his. “Go on, tell me why you’re called that.”
He huffs an irritated breath. “My mother had a thing for the actor John Wayne. She used to watch his movies over and over.”
I frown. “I don’t follow. Who’s John Wayne?” I widen my eyes. “You mean John Wayne Gacy? The serial killer?”
Draven rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass. I said the actor. Google it.”
He spins on his heel and disappears back into the bathroom. Curious, I grab my phone, and click on the first page that comes up in the search results. I only have to scan the first line of Wikipedia.
“Oh dear,” I say, laughing so hard, tears roll down my face.
“I can fucking hear you,” Draven hollers through the closed bathroom door.
“Why didn’t she just call you John if she was such a fan?”
“Because, according to my wonderful mother, who will get her punishment in the next life, that’s not his real name.”
“It must have been hard keeping that from your buddies in the NYPD. Is that why you left?”
He reappears holding a pair of scissors he uses to trim his beard. “You’re not going to let it drop, are you?”
“I will,” I say. “I’m curious, that’s all. We haven’t spoken about why you left the force.”
He sits on the bed. “I didn’t leave of my own accord. Not really. I wasn’t given a choice.” His face twists in a mixture of pain and disappointment.
I take a seat beside him. “What happened?”
His right shoulder twitches in a partial shrug. “Another Tony Callides, except this one happened to know the right people.”
I sigh. “Draven.”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t, Lola. I miss the force, but I don’t miss the rules and regulations. I’m better on my own. Even now, I wouldn’t change a damn thing. Callides deserved what he got and more, as did Siemens, the guy who got me removed from the force. If you’re looking for me to apologize or regret what I did, you’ll have a fucking long wait.”
I smile and rest my head on his shoulder. “You know, at first I thought that was what I wanted. For you to change. To tone it down. To play by the rules. But now I realize that’s not you, and it never will be . You’re unapologetically ferocious, harsh at times, and merciless in pursuit of villains… but you’re also kind, considerate, and you love your friends and family.”
“And you can live with that?”
I press my lips to his cheek. “I can’t live without it.”
Wow… what a ride Draven became. A book I started as a way to quieten a very loud voice in my head, became an epic journey I thought would never end.
Yet here we are…
Draven pushed me to my limits, both creatively and mentally. I worked my ass off on this book, and even though I hated him at times, I’m so proud of this finished product.
The subject matter is dark and far too real, and there were days where my mind would wander into extremely difficult places. Thank goodness my amazing husband was always there when I emerged from the iniquitous world this story took me to.
The life of a writer isn’t easy, but it is rewarding, and knowing that you are reading this right now fills my heart with so much happiness.
Thanks to you, I can keep on doing the thing I love.