Page 74 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Carson lifts me like I don’t weigh regret and trauma and 180 pounds of vengeance-soaked catharsis. His arms are solid under me, warm and steady, and I let my head fall against his shoulder, breath catching on a sob that feels too big to swallow but too tired to release.

I should feel ruined. But instead… I feel clean. Hollowed out. Like someone finally scooped out the rot and left space for something else. Something terrifying. Something soft.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” I whisper. My voice sounds like it’s drifting down the mountain ahead of us.

“I never doubted you could,” Carson says.

And the thing is, he means it. Every word. Like it was a foregone conclusion that I’d kill the man who broke me. And he always knew I’d make it out the other side.

I let my fingers curl in his shirt. Blood’s still drying under my nails. My heart thuds steady now, more drumbeat than siren.

“I think,” I say, voice thick, “I’m gonna fuck you in the shower… then the bed… and you’re gonna wear your badge and gun belt.”

He huffs a laugh, low and hungry. “Looking forward to it, sweetheart. You can wear my hat. And finally sit on my face.”

I grin. It’s lopsided. Wet-cheeked. A little unhinged. But it’s real.

Carson carries me toward the car like I’m something precious.

Behind us, I hear Blake nervously asking if they need to bleach the soil and Edgar whistling like he’s rehoming a garden gnome.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Carson

The water’s running, steaming up the mirror behind her, but I can’t take my eyes off her face.

Not her body. Not yet. That war’s already lost, I just haven’t surrendered. It’s the look in her eyes. Hollow and wild, soft and vicious. The kind of look that says I did what I had to. The kind of look that says touch me and mean every goddamn inch of it.

I mean it.

My hands are careful when I slide her jacket off. It’s ruined, spattered with blood that’s not hers. Thank fuck. I drop it to the tile like it’s made of thorns, then reach for the hem of her top. My knuckles brush her skin as I lift it, and she shivers, but doesn’t pull away.

That’s permission enough.

I peel the shirt off, slow. Let it catch just a second on her elbows so I can step in closer and breathe her in. Blood and sweat. Fear and fury. And something else under it all, something hot, alive. Like the violence isn’t over yet, just shifting forms.

“You okay?” I ask. My voice sounds like it’s coming from my teeth, not my throat.

She nods. Then again, smaller. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie. That doesn’t matter. I’m not asking for her story. I’m asking if she still wants me here. And she does. Her hands curl in the fabric of my shirt like she’s about to strip me, too, but she waits. Lets me lead.

I work her pants down next. I kiss just above her hip, then the inside of her knee. Not because I’m trying to seduce her.Because I saw her with blood on her hands and I need to remind her, she’s not just a weapon. She’s still mine to hold.

“Get in,” I say, once she’s bare and I’m stripped down to skin and nerves. “I’ll follow you in a second.”

She steps under the water without a word.

And I take a second. One breath. Two. Because if I go in there right now, I’ll devour her. And I need to be sure, dead sure, that she wants that.

I grab a towel. Wipe the red from her fingers. Then the washcloth, soaked and hot, dragging over her spine, her throat, her ribs. Her eyes close.

She tilts her head back and sighs.

“You’re still shaking,” I say.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Not scared though.”

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