Page 23 of Forbidden

"Let's secure everything and get out of here," she said, her voice returning to its usual authoritative timbre. There was work yet to be done tomorrow, and the killer was still a specter at large—a ghost in the machine of the city's underbelly. They needed rest, needed to sharpen their wits if they were to cut through the web of deceit that enshrouded this case.

As they began to tidy the clutter of files and evidence bags, Morgan allowed herself a fleeting glance at Derik. In the sterile light of the FBI headquarters, with shadows carving out hollows beneath his tired eyes, he looked every part the weary warrior. And she, feeling an echo of that same weariness in her bones, knew they would face the coming dawn together, ready to chase down the demons that hid in plain sight.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Morgan's hand was steady as she slid the key into the lock, the metallic click cutting through the night's silence. The door swung open, and an immediate rush of warmth greeted them—not just from the heated interior, but from the welcome sound of four paws tapping eagerly across the hardwood floor. Skunk, the embodiment of loyalty in canine form, charged toward his owner with a zeal that no human betrayal could ever dampen.

His tail whipped back and forth like a metronome set to the tempo of pure joy. His eyes, two pools reflecting the moonlight that filtered through the ajar door, sparkled with the unmistakable love of a dog for its master. Morgan's heart, so often shrouded in the armor of her past and the shadows of her vendetta, felt a crack in its defenses at the sight of her faithful companion.

A smile, unbidden and rare, curved the corners of her lips. She dropped to one knee, the day's grime and the weight of their investigation momentarily forgotten. Her hands delved into Skunk's fur, finding solace in the thick bristles that had weathered years of separation and uncertainty. He leaned into her touch, a silent pact of unconditional support passing between them.

Beside her, Derik crouched down, adding his own gesture of affection to the reunion. His fingers found the sweet spot behind Skunk's ears, eliciting a pleased rumble from the pitbull's throat. In this small act, Derik found a reprieve—a moment of normalcy amidst the chaos of their pursuit. Here, there were no Satanic symbols or cryptic clues, just the simple comfort of a bond shared with an animal whose trust was unwavering.

The stillness of the house enveloped them. For now, the unanswered questions lay dormant, pushed aside by the more pressing need to acknowledge the presence of something good, something untainted by the darkness they faced each day.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," Derik said, a shadow of vulnerability in his eyes.

She nodded, the gesture small but full of understanding. Talking was effort she couldn't muster—not yet. Her mind was a whirlpool, each thought colliding with the next, creating a relentless current that pulled at her concentration. She turned away, leaving the comfort of Skunk's presence behind as she crossed the threshold into the kitchen. The dim light from the fixture above her cast long, wavering shadows across the floor, mirroring the darkness that clung to the edges of her psyche.

Derik watched her move, a silent figure against the sparse light. He knew when to give her space. It was one of the things she valued in him—his ability to sense the storm beneath her calm exterior and not push her toward a shore she wasn't ready to reach.

She opened a cabinet, reaching for the bottle of scotch without hesitation. It was a routine etched into muscle memory, a ritual that promised no answers but offered respite. The liquid poured into the glass, a rich amber captured momentarily by the light before settling into the depths of the tumbler.

Morgan's gaze flickered to Derik, a silent question poised on her lips amid the dim light of the kitchen. "You mind?" she asked, nodding toward the scotch in her hand.

"Of course not," Derik responded, his voice carrying the gentle scratch of weariness. A wry grin lifted the corner of his mouth as he added, "I may have given up drinking, but I'm not about to start judging anyone else for enjoying one after a hard day.”

She managed a half-smile, a ghost of amusement passing through her otherwise stoic demeanor. Lifting the glass to her lips, she savored the slow burn that trailed down her throat, the sharpness momentarily blunting the relentless churn of her thoughts. The liquid heat unfurled within her, and for a fleeting instant, Morgan felt a semblance of peace amidst the turmoil.

In the living room, the couch received them like an old friend, its cushions well-acquainted with the contours of their exhaustion. Skunk trotted over, his nails clicking softly against the hardwood before he leapt up to claim his spot between them. He nestled into Morgan's lap, his warm weight comforting and familiar as her fingers found their way through his fur, moving rhythmically without conscious thought.

The clock ticked quietly from its post on the wall, a soft metronome to the stillness that enveloped the room. Skunk exhaled contentedly, his breaths punctuating the silence. It was the kind of quiet that spoke volumes, rich with the history of shared glances and unspoken understandings. Morgan's eyes drifted closed for a moment, allowing herself to be anchored by the presence of her partner and her dog.

As she opened her eyes, she caught Derik's gaze, his eyes reflecting back the faint light that filtered through the blinds. They both knew the language of silence well, the way it could cushion the harsh reality they faced daily. Yet beneath the quietude lay an undercurrent of tension, a tangle of thoughts and worries neither had yet voiced.

Derik seemed lost in his own reverie, his gaze distant as if replaying the day's events behind his eyelids. He was motionless except for the occasional, almost imperceptible, nod—confirmations to himself or rebuttals to ghosts of conversations past.

Morgan, too, found herself revisiting the day's grim tapestry—their fruitless visit to the nightclub, the stalemate with Rog, the cold faces of those detained after the raid. Each dead end seemed to tighten the knot in her gut, frustration simmering just below the surface.

Her hand continued its steady course through Skunk's fur, each stroke a silent mantra, a wish for clarity amidst the chaos. The dog, blissfully unaware of the human complexities surrounding him, nuzzled into her touch, grounding her in the moment.

Morgan shifted her weight, the cushions of the couch compressing beneath her. She drew in a slow breath, her gaze fixed on Derik's profile outlined by the dim light filtering through the windows. The silence stretched between them, not oppressive but full, like the charged air before a storm.

"Derik," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thanks—for today. For everything." It was a simple sentence, yet it carried the weight of unspoken gratitude. Morgan rarely let her guard down, but tonight, raw emotion tinged her words. Her eyes never left his face, searching for something she couldn't quite name.

He turned to her, gaze reflecting a history of shared struggles and victories. "I've got your back, Morgan. Always have, always will," he said, his voice firm with conviction. In that moment, the lines around his eyes seemed to soften, his usual weariness replaced by an unwavering support that reached out to her like an anchor.

Morgan's throat tightened as those words wrapped around her, reminding her of the bond they shared. It had been a long road back to this place of mutual trust, and she felt the strain of the journey in her bones. Swallowing hard, she fought against the tide of emotions that threatened to spill over.

"It's been... hard," she admitted, her voice quivering as if testing the strength of a thin sheet of ice. "Letting you back in after... after everything." She paused, her gaze dropping to the scotch in her hand. The liquid's golden hue mirrored the warmth she used to feel towards him—a warmth she'd barricaded behind walls built from years of betrayal and pain.

Morgan continued, steadying her voice with effort. "What you said the other night, about loving me..." She trailed off, collecting her thoughts like scattered pieces of evidence. "It shook me more than I showed." She looked up at him again, her dark brown eyes veiling the turmoil within. "I love you too, Derik. But showing it, saying it—it doesn't come easy to me. And tailing me like that, not telling me, it’s not okay. I need you to trust me.”

She observed his reaction, looking for a sign, any indication that her confession meant something. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, each movement betraying her inner struggle to articulate the depth of her feelings. "I've been so focused on protecting myself, on keeping my heart guarded," she confessed. Her voice cracked then, revealing the chinks in her emotional armor. "But I need you to know—you mean more to me than I've ever let on."

The words hung heavy in the stillness of the room, a testament to the battles they've faced both together and within themselves. Morgan felt exposed, as if she'd laid out all her cards on the table for him to see. Yet, there was also relief in the confession, a release of pressure from a valve held tight for far too long.

Derik's hand reached out, the motion gentle but purposeful, and Morgan felt her chin being lifted by his warm fingers. Their eyes locked, and she saw the depth of emotion in his gaze—a storm of relief, love, and concern. Then, his lips met hers, a touch that was both tender and resolute. The kiss bridged the chasm of unspoken fears and uncertainties that had lingered between them for far too long. It was a silent promise, a shared acceptance of their complicated past and the vulnerability they both bore.

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