Page 78 of Draven

“No.”

I pout. “Fine. Screw you.”

He grins. “You will be. Soon. When you’re healed.”

I snort. “Maybe I won’t be interested by then.”

He hitches his left shoulder. “Your loss.”

I make a frustrated noise. “You’re no fun.”

“And you’re so fucking easy to wind up. It’s become my favorite pastime.”

I try to hit him with the palm of my hand, but the movement fires pain through my midriff. “Shit. These fucking ribs are driving me crazy.”

He gets out of bed, soon returning with two ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take these. They’ll take the edge off.”

Even though I struggle to sit up, even with Draven’s help, I knock back the pills. “I wish Shala was alive so I could kill the bastard all over again. Slowly. Involving knives and needles shoved into his dick.”

Draven grins. “A woman with vengeance on her mind. Remind me to be careful around you, sweetcheeks.” He gets back into bed and slips an arm around my shoulder. “You worried the shit out of me yesterday, Lola. When I burst into that room and saw what he’d done to you.” A muscle flutters in his cheek, and he’s clenching the covers in a white-knuckled fist. “Promise me you’ll never volunteer to put yourself at risk like that again.”

“I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. I’m a cop, Draven. It’s a dangerous job, but I love it.” I draw my fingernails across his rock-hard abdomen. He hisses and captures my hand, stilling me. “Besides, I have nothing to fear with you in my corner. Right?”

He brings my hand to his mouth and sucks on my forefinger before biting the pad. Then he closes his eyes, his long, dark lashes gracing his sharply angled cheekbones.

“Always, sweetcheeks,” he murmurs. “Always.”

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.”

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