Page 32 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

He was covered in tattoos—just like the glimpse I saw in the article—only it was so much better in person, especially when they flexed with every filthy thrust of his hips.

The moth at his throat? My kryptonite. His arms were sleeved in a collage of skulls, insects, and darkly magical things—tarot cards, ritual daggers, symbols I couldn’t name but felt, and roses.

So many goddamn roses. His body was a garden I wanted to tend.

And his back? A fucking masterpiece. Thick muscle wrapped in intricate angel wings, centered by bold Roman numerals running down his spine—MMXVIIIXVII.

My eyes dropped lower.

“Oh, my God!” I squealed with a smirk as I held out my glass and pointed with one finger to Graham, who shook his ass at the ladies crowding the bar, his pants lingering almost too low. “Is that a fucking tramp stamp?”

Katie took notice and threw her head back with one of her classic cackles.

“Sure is. Wanna lick it?” She asked, her face twisting into something mischievous.

“Not as much as those stars on either side of his dick.” I said, not realizing it was out loud.

He moved like he wanted every pair of panties in the house to be soaked and then some—writhing and thrusting to the beat and pouring lemonade down his abs with a wicked glint in his eye. The liquid traced every ridge of his stomach, and something low and shameful twisted between my legs.

God, I wanted to run my tongue over him, cleaning up every last drop.

He had two glass bottles, one in each hand, dishing out shots to the squealing women below, all of them desperate to touch him. Touch what I already knew—what he’d already given me flashes of.

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

You’re just drunk, I lied to myself. Just drunk, and stupid, and jealous.

A woman in too-high heels and a too tight dress tottered up to me, glass in hand.

Brunette, spray-tanned, and smiling with that kind of entitlement that made my hackles rise.

“I paid good money for tonight,” she said, her voice syrupy-sweet yet laced with razors. “I don’t need you dirtying him up before I get him home.”

I blinked at her, the words slow to register through the fog of alcohol and rage.

“Ohhh,” I said, dragging it out like I was tasting the poison. “You got him from the bachelor’s auction, right?”

She smirked, tossing a glance toward Graham, who was now slowly air-fucking the bar. “I did indeed. So keep your hands off.”

I blinked at her.

“He’s not a piece of meat, you know,” I said, even though a traitorous part of me wanted him to be.

The woman laughed, flipping her hair like she’d already won. “He will be when I’m done with him.”

I felt my face split in a slow, savage grin.

“Hate to break it to you,” I said, my voice all fake sweetness, “but he’s already had his hands all up in my— dirty business.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed, but the tightness in her shoulders gave her away.

Graham caught the exchange, and slung his shirt over one shoulder, glistening, chest heaving, tattoos flexing with every breath. Then he hopped off the bar and made his way to us.

God, he looked wrecked and concerned.

But so fucking good.

“What are you two ladies talkin’ about?” he asked, using his shirt to dab the sweat from his brow.

“Oh, I was just telling her about how you thought my purple dildo with the vibrating tip was pretty cool,” I said brightly, watching her choke on her martini.

Bingo.

Graham laughed—the kind of laugh that sounded like it hurt—and spun me around toward Katie. “Look—you’re missing all the fun with Katie.”

“That’s not what you said a little while ago,” I teased, bumping my hip against his.

Graham dropped onto a nearby stool and ran his shirt over his abs, drying his belly, looking entirely too edible while he did so.

I stared at him openly—at the way the tattoos wrapped around those bulging biceps and thick forearms, the way his abs flexed when he moved.

Without thinking, I reached out and squeezed a bicep. Then I fucking bit him. Not hard, just enough to make him flinch.

Hard muscle flexed under my teeth.

The salt from his sweat mixed with the sweetness of the lemonade tasted fucking divine.

I licked my upper lip in a way too sexual attempt at getting a rise out of his date.

“Ooo, yummy.” I said with a smirk.

“Jesus, Maggie,” he warned, flicking a look at his date like he was reminding himself she existed.

“Oop,” I said, laughing. “Look who’s all hands and teeth tonight.”

I grinned wickedly before turning myself around, and then throwing a glance over my shoulder at him. “I’ve been a bad girl, Officer,” I whispered. “I wonder if your cuffs will hold me tight enough for you to punish me.”

I turned back and held out my hands like a good little criminal—and promptly lost my balance, tumbling right into the space between his legs.

“Oopsie,” I giggled, grabbing strategically high on his thighs as I pushed myself back up.

Graham sucked in a breath—a dangerous sound that vibrated through me.

Our eyes locked.

And for one blistering moment, there was no one else.

Not the crowd.

Not the bar.

Not even his date.

Just him.

And me.

And everything we weren’t saying.

Then she huffed.

And I remembered reality with a crashing, nauseating force.

“Graham,” she said, voice suddenly desperate. “I’d like to take our date somewhere else.” She leaned in, whispering, “…like your bedroom.”

His eyes went comically huge. Like he hadn’t completely thought this through, past the free drinks and dancing.

Jealousy, anger, and nausea all hit me at once, a toxic cocktail in my gut.

I tried to hold it together.

I really did.

But I bent forward—right over Graham’s thigh—and wretched violently onto his date’s shoes.

The world froze.

Graham stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his stool. “Let’s get you home,” he said, voice gentle but no-nonsense.

“I think that’s a good idea,” his date said quickly, slipping her feet from her ruined heels.

“I meant Maggie, Tiffany.”

She huffed. “It’s Brittany,” she snapped, then stomped away in a trail of pink neon rage.

The rest was a blur?—

Derek must’ve blacked out, because I thought Graham called an Uber for him and the girls, Katie drunkenly blew kisses at the bartenders—and then the last thing I remembered was Graham lifting me off my feet, carrying me toward his truck. The steady thump of his heart the only anchor I had left.

And then everything went black.

Graham

Maggie slumped against the window, hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, the streetlights carving soft gold across her skin.

I gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles creaking, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the goddamn road and not on the long stretch of leg she kept flashing every time she shifted.

The cab smelled of wood smoke, gasoline, and her.

Sweetness and sin.

It was fucking unbearable.

“Sorry about that back at the bar,” she mumbled, voice sticky with sleep and booze. “I don’t know what came over me. I guess I shouldn’t have had two Long Islands.”

I shook my head, jaw ticking, then shifted in my seat. “Christ, Maggie,” I muttered. “I’m amazed you’re even speaking.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said, flashing me a woozy, heartbreakingly sweet smile.

We rolled to a stop at a red light, and I leaned my arm against the window, trying to breathe through the wildfire burning under my skin.

Stay calm.

Get her home.

Don’t do anything stupid.

I was still telling myself that when I heard the soft click of her seatbelt unbuckling.

I turned my head—and there she was, crawling across the bench seat toward me, hair spilling over her face, dress riding high, a wicked, drunken grin on her face.

She grabbed my belt buckle and hastily tried to undo it.

“Max—what the fuck—” I jerked back, slamming my knee into the dash.

She giggled playfully, dragging her palm up my thigh.

“I just want to taste you,” she slurred, lips brushing my arm, eyes glassy with booze and wildness.

I caught her wrist mid-reach, squeezing tight.

Not rough.

Just enough.

“No,” I said, voice low and guttural. “I don’t fuck drunk girls.”

She pouted, shifting like she could squirm her way around my hold, her mouth way too close to the line where I was already fighting a losing battle.

“Look, cupcake,” I said, using the only damn card I had left, “you’re gonna be real fucking embarrassed tomorrow, if you keep this up.”

“I hate when you call me that.” She whimpered— fucking whimpered —and laid her forehead against my bicep, breathing me in like she couldn’t help herself.

Like I was the last good thing she trusted not to break her.

Goddamn it.

Goddamn her.

The light changed.

I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second, fighting for oxygen, then shifted the truck back in gear, holding her against me with one arm across her shoulders.

At least I managed to protect her from herself, even if she was hellbent on wrecking me in the process.

It didn’t take long before her body went slack against mine, her breathing soft and even.

Passed out cold.

Good.

Fucking good.

I rolled into her driveway, gravel crunching under my tires, porch light flickering like it was just as drunk as she was.

“Stay put,” I barked, even though she was deadweight now.

I climbed out, and moved fast to her side.

Her words, “I just want to taste you,” rang in my mind repeatedly.

I fucking wanted her to.

I swung the door open just as she tried to stick a bare foot out.

Where the hell did her shoes go?

“Watch your step, Max,” I muttered, steadying her.

“Max?” she slurred, blinking up at me with those big brown eyes.

I held out my hand.

“Just trying it out…”

It had slipped out at the range, and a few times after. She grinned like she didn’t even notice the first couple times, or maybe she did—maybe she liked it.

I told her I was just trying it out, but the truth was… I needed something that was just mine. Maggie was what everyone else called her. Her friends, her coworkers, her exes. But Max? It had bite. Edge. Felt like the version of her I got—unfiltered, loud, stubborn, and real as hell.

Max was the one who argued with me until I caved. Max was the one who looked at me like I was the goddamn sun when I did something right. Max was the one I couldn’t get out of my head.

So yeah, I was calling her Max.

“Is that okay?” I asked.

“Mm-hmm.” She smiled, soft and sleepy. “I think I will call you S’more.”

“S’more? Why’s that?” I asked like I hadn’t heard every goddamn graham cracker joke there was.

She grabbed my hand—and then promptly launched herself off the seat, crashing full-body into my chest.

The hit nearly staggered me, but I locked my knees and caught her, arms closing around her instinctively.

Fuck, she felt good against me. Too good .

And for a second I thought maybe—maybe—she’d make it.

“Cause you’re all firm and dark and grumpy…

” she said, her words all muddled together as she wobbled dramatically.

“…but I know if I get you in my mouth… you’ll melt all over me in a warm sticky mess.

” She looked up at me with her eyes shut tight and a plastered on smirk like she was proud of herself for coming up with that all by herself.

My jaw tightened. Jesus Christ.

“Let’s get you inside,” I said, adjusting my grip.

She tried walking on her own, stubborn as hell even drunk out of her mind, but she couldn’t stay upright to save her life.

Every few steps she crumpled, scraping her knees on the broken pathway.

Fuck that.

Without hesitation, I swooped her up, bridal style, her body featherlight against me.

She sighed against my chest, head nuzzling under my jaw like she was trying to carve herself a permanent place there. It should’ve made it easier. Should’ve made it simple.

But as I adjusted her weight in my arms, my fingers brushed against the inside of my jacket, finding the familiar shape by instinct.

The chain.

The ring.

The one reason why I could never be with her the way I craved.

I tightened my hold on her and kept walking.

Goddamn it, she was going to ruin me.

I carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind us, navigating by memory through the dark. I found her bedroom, the scent of lavender and the girl wrapping around me like a noose.

The bed was messy, blankets thrown half-off, but it was perfect.

I lowered her down gently, keeping her dress on, fighting every screaming instinct that wanted to strip her bare and worship every inch.

But not tonight.

Not like this.

Never like this.

She whimpered in her sleep, grabbing at the blankets.

I spotted a trash can in the corner and dragged it to her bedside, just in case.

Tucked it close.

Prepared.

She twisted, face crumpling like she might cry.

I crouched beside the bed, brushing a curl off her forehead with the backs of my fingers.

Her skin was so soft.

Too soft for a bastard like me to touch.

I stayed there a moment too long, watching her breathe, soaking in the way she made the whole fucking world quieter just by existing.

She deserved better.

Better than a broken cop with more blood on his hands than he could ever wash off.

Better than stolen glances and dirty jokes.

But, Jesus, I wanted her.

Wanted her like I wanted to breathe.

And every time I tried to stay away, she found a new way to pull me closer without even trying.

I rose to my feet, shrugging off my leather jacket and tossing it over the back of an armchair by her walk-in closet.

I dropped into the chair, the frame creaking under my weight, boots set neatly at my side

Watching her.

Guarding her.

Falling harder than I had any right to.

Across the room, she shifted in her sleep, curling tighter into the blankets, one bare shoulder slipping free.

I should’ve looked away.

Should’ve covered her up.

Should’ve hauled my sorry ass back to the truck.

Instead, I stayed.

I stayed because she was warm and alive and breathing—and for the first time in a long fucking time, it didn’t scare me.

I buried my face in my hands, breathing slow through the wreckage inside my chest.

Every other night, when I closed my eyes, they were waiting for me.

Rebecca.

Wrenley.

Frozen smiles. Blood that wouldn’t wash off my hands.

The sound of a phone call that shattered my world to pieces I still couldn’t glue back together.

Every other night, they dragged me under. But not tonight. Tonight, there were no screams. No sirens. No broken bodies I couldn’t save. Just her. Just Maggie. Her soft laughter echoing in my dreams, her hands pulling me back instead of pushing me under.

I told myself the same lie I always did. Get her through tonight, Locke. Get her through sober. Then walk away. But I knew it was already too late. Because for the first time in years, I didn’t dream of the dead. I dreamt of a life I didn’t deserve.

I dreamt of her.