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I nod and we move away from the laughter, the chatter, the barbecue smoke curling into the sky, until it’s just the two of us under the trees. I glance up, heart pounding, lips parting like maybe I’ll stop him — but I don’t. I let him speak.
“You’ve seen the news?” He asks.
“Hard to miss when the Aviary has taken centre stage and it’s all anyone can talk about.”
“It’s finally over,” he breathes, his voice low, like he’s still trying to convince himself it’s real.
And it is. It’s over. The last of the arrests went down two days ago.
he final pieces fell into place, the final names were dragged into the light, exposed for the world to see. Most of the players were cornered, cuffed, paraded in front of cameras, their reputations torn apart in real time.
And at the center of it all? My captor. Pastor Vernon Gibbons. I can’t pretend he wasn’t one of the biggest shocks. Because he was. The man who stood at the pulpit, preaching salvation and redemption, was the same man who locked me in a room and sold me like I was nothing. The same man who smiled as he ruined lives. The same man people trusted — followed — worshipped.
“I’m done with the Bureau,” he says quietly.
My breath catches.
“Why?”
His eyes meet mine, burning, unflinching. “Because I want a life that’s mine. I want to start my own firm — private security,on my own terms. No-one sending me across the world when I should be home.” He steps closer, voice softening, “With you.”
I suck in a breath, tears prickling behind my eyes.
“Saxon…”
His hands hover, like he’s terrified to touch me, terrified I’ll break if he does. But his voice? His voice is steady as a promise.
“I want to be yours,” he says, voice rough, shaking. “Just you. Me. The mess we make together.” He swallows hard. “If you don’t want me, I’ll walk away right now. But if there’s even one piece of you that still wants this — us — then I swear, Maxine… I will never stop choosing you. I don’t want perfect, Maxine. I don’t want easy. I wantyou. Your anger, your scars, your stubborn heart. I want mornings where we fight over coffee, nights where we fall asleep tangled in each other, and a future where I never have to wonder if you’re safe — because you’ll be with me, and I’ll make goddamn sure you stay safe.”
A tear slips down my cheek. His thumb brushes it away before I even realize he’s moved.
“I love you,” he says, voice breaking just a little, raw and rough and beautiful. “I love you so much it terrifies me. But I’m done running from it.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I can only feel — the weight of everything we’ve survived, the sharp, aching beauty of the fact that we’re still standing, still here, still fighting for a chance to make this right.
And then I close the distance, wrap my arms around his neck, and whisper, “I’m yours, Saxon. Always.”
Because this? This is the kind of love that scars. It burns. It remakes you from the ashes. This is the kind of love you survive hell for.
62
SAXON
She’s still breathless, skin flushed and slick, hair damp and wild, lips bruised from where I’ve kissed her — bitten her — devoured her. She’s beautiful. Fucking untouchable. Except she’s not. Not anymore. Now she’s mine.
I drag her to the vanity, her feet stumbling, knees weak, and press her palms flat to the cold marble counter.
“Look at yourself,” I growl, my voice ragged, rough, still shaking from how close I am to completely losing control.
Her eyes lift to the mirror — dark, wide, ruined. Her gaze crashes into mine in the glass, and the sight punches the air clean out of my chest.
I step behind her, towering, bare, cock already hard again like I didn’t just fuck her through the mattress twice.
“You see this girl?” I whisper against her ear, my chest flush to her back, my fingers curling possessively around her wrists. “She’s mine.”
She shivers, a small sound escaping her lips — a broken, helpless sound. But she doesn’t speak. So I grab her jaw, rough, forcing her chin up, making sure her eyes can’t drop away from the reflection.
“Say it,” I snarl.