Page 60 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“Hey Cap, what’s up?” I grumbled, voice flat as I tried to keep the irritation in check, tossing my phone in the air like it was a grenade before stepping into the hall.

This is exactly what I didn’t need—an interruption at the absolute worst possible moment. I’d finally worked up the nerve to do something real here. Maybe even make a move that actually mattered. Did he have no sense of timing?

I hadn’t kissed anyone since Rebecca, for Christ’s sake.

Rebecca. This was serious shit. Like next-level, sweat-through-your-shirt, pray-to-a-god-you-don’t-believe-in serious. And now I had to answer. Because it was the Captain .

Fucking piss on it.

I couldn’t even lie to myself—most people probably eased into these things. Wooing. Candlelight. Some goddamn jazz in the background and a perfectly chilled bottle of wine. But me? No shot.

Since Rebecca died, I tapped out. She took the whole damn heart with her. What was left? A shell of a man who fucked and bailed. No attachment. No exceptions. No fire to burn the ruins.

Then she showed up. Soft voice. Sharp eyes. No bullshit. And somehow, she cracked through what no one else could.

And me? I didn’t know the first damn thing about how to handle that. I was the guy trying to fix a car with a sledgehammer—loud, clumsy, and guaranteed to break everything without trying.

Shit.

Why the fuck couldn’t I let her be like the others?

Great tits.

Killer ass.

Just the right amount of squish.

And fuck— her thighs… thick, meaty… the kind I wanted to bite into and bruise with my mouth.

She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. Confident, sharp, mouthy as hell—and every damn thing about her checked the same boxes as half the women I’d hooked up with before.

So why the hell was she different?

Unless… it was the fear.

The way it clung to her. The way she fought it, anyway.

Maybe that’s what was doing it. Drawing me in like a goddamn moth to a bonfire.

I wanted to be the reason that fear left her.

That had to be it. Had to be.

It was fear. Not her. Just the timing. Just the case. Just my overworked brain turning to mush and confusing arousal with protectiveness. Right?

God, I hated this.

What—now I had a fuckin’ savior complex?

Twenty goddamn years on the force, and this was the moment I decided to grow a conscience?

Great. One more thing to cry about in therapy.

Or maybe I was just turned on by her vulnerability. Even better.

This shit was a whole new level of fucked up.

“—and we’ve got a positive ID on the vic,” Nettles said, dragging me out of my spiral.

Shit. Right. He was still talking. I was supposed to be listening.

I cleared my throat. “That was fast. Anyone worth noting?”

“Mortimer—Morty—Planchette. Silas’s tax accountant.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, long enough for me to glance toward the sunroom. Maggie was still curled up with Chester, running her fingers through his fur like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.

Shit, I’d let her do that to me. Curl her fingers through my hair, scratch me behind the ears. I’d purr, too.

“Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the skull,” Nettles finally continued. “Looks like two or three solid blows.”

Jesus. I needed to start listening when this man spoke.

“I’ll let Maggie know,” I said, straightening up. “See if she knows anything about the accountant.”

“Don’t get too close to her, Locke.” He paused. “She’s not Rebecca.”

The words hit me right in the gut and stayed there heavy and intentional.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snapped, the heat behind it escaping before I could stop it. I cleared my throat. “Sir.”

“Is she worth the relapse?” His tone dripped with disappointment, like I’d already failed some invisible test.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I gave a hollow laugh, but it sounded weak, even to me.

“I saw it in your eyes back in my office. You’re getting too close. That’s when mistakes happen. Orders get ignored. People get hurt.”

“I’m fine, Cap.” I tried to sound sincere, to sound like the man he thought he trained. But the truth was, she was making me feel again. Like maybe there was something left in this blackened pit I called a chest.

“So I don’t have to worry about you developing feelings? About you putting yourself—and her—in danger?”

“No,” I whispered. “Never.”

And, fuck me, that was a lie.

“Then why are you still in the house?” He pressed.

Typical Nettles. Prying like a crow with shiny things—always poking when the answers didn’t line up.

“I had to use the bathroom. We were in the middle of a conversation when you called. I was on my way out.”

He stayed silent for a moment, then?—

“Alright. Just remember your job. Do it. And clock out at six hundred.”

Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

I couldn’t have ended the call faster if I tried. Christ, he talked to me like I was his teenage daughter sneaking in after curfew.

Maggie’s eyes followed me as I stepped back into the sunroom.

That’s right… you like what you see, don’t ya, sweetheart?

Leaning against the doorway, I crossed my legs at the ankle, letting the tension drain just a hair. “We’ve got a positive ID. Morty Planchette—your uncle’s tax accountant. Did you know him… or at least of him?”

She looked at my crotch before dragging her gaze back to my face, cheeks blooming pink.

Fuck… yeah, she did.

“No. But I do have something to tell you,” she breathed. “And I don’t know how.”

I sighed and eased onto the arm of the couch next to her, already bracing myself. “I’m gonna regret asking, aren’t I?”

“Remember when we found him—Morty? I kind of froze up.”

I nodded.

“Well… apparently I had a vision. I—I don’t fully understand what it meant, but I don’t think Portia killed him. Not Morty, anyway.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know. In the vision, I was Morty. I felt how pissed he was at Portia. He threatened to expose her—who she really is. He grabbed her. I think Morty wanted to kill her. Then I was spun around and nailed in the head with a tire iron.”

“Do you know what the person looked like?”

“No. I only saw a black-gloved hand. And golden cufflinks.”

I exhaled. “So what the hell did Morty know about Portia that got him killed?” Then my voice dropped because, what? “You sure you had a vision?”

She hit me with that look. That look. The one women give you when you say something colossally stupid. The kind of glare that could shoot your balls off without a gun.

I held up both hands. “Alright, alright—your death glare is coming in loud and clear. But how the fuck am I supposed to bring this to Nettles without sounding like I’ve lost my damn mind?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s not my problem. I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“G-Great. It’s really great… and I do believe you. I just know Nettles. And he’d be fucking pissed if I pulled more random evidence out of my ass. Every time I do, I have to weave a story with Derek that sounds halfway believable.”

“Really?” She stood up, cradling Chester like a baby. “Come on, they use psychics all the time?—”

“Yeah, in the movies. And as much as I’d love to be some invincible superhero prancing around in tight leather all day… this is real life, Max. I still don’t even know if I fully believe what happened to me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She snapped, setting Chester down at her feet, but the little man immediately jumped into my lap, searching for scritches. Her jaw clenched like it physically hurt to watch.

“You’re going to deny days of experiences? Days of being possessed? You’re going to deny coming a goddamn gallon of ectoplasm onto my tits?—”

Fuck. Not the imagery I needed right now.

“‘I’m not denying it,” I muttered. “I’m just not ready to believe it. Look, I know it happened, but I don’t know how to process it. I’ve spent my whole life pretending shit like this didn’t exist. If this is real, I need time. I need to reprogram from a childhood of lies beat into me.”

Her face softened, like my words had flipped some quiet switch. “Fair enough. Sorry I freaked.” A wash of embarrassment settled into her expression. “Wait… did you say beat?”

“Yeah. But that’s a story for another day.

” I waved it off, like it was dust on my shoulder.

“Don’t really feel like diving into how my mommy gave me welts for telling ghost stories.

Besides—“ I leaned back slightly as Chester curled tighter against me, “—you’ve been through a hell of a lot in a short amount of time. We just need to be real careful how we present any info to Nettles.”

“Right. No ectoplasm on the evidence log,” she muttered, biting back a smirk.

I huffed. “Exactly. Derek’s a pro at twisting the truth just enough to make it palatable. Everything he says checks out, but he’s got this way of making it sound less… spooky.”

She chuckled and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, cocking a brow.

She blinked, lowering her hand like I’d just asked her if she could juggle knives. “Do what?”

I pointed at her lips. “That. Covering your mouth when you laugh.”

Her posture shifted, shoulders tucking inward. “Oh. I… I hate the little gap in my teeth. I hate my smile.”

“Well, stop,” I said, and it sounded just as sharp as I meant it. “Not from me. It’s a damn fine smile.”

Her eyes widened, the flash of surprise raw and honest.

“What?” I leaned in, tone gentler now.

“No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Jesus. No one? Not even your ex-fiancee? Friends? Family?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean… people notice other things. If they comment at all, it’s about my pussy… or my ass. Maybe my tits. That’s it.”

“Fucking assholes,” I muttered, my jaw tightening. What the hell kind of world made a woman think her smile wasn’t worth mentioning?

And yeah—the truth? I had thought about those lips wrapped around my cock more than once. But there was something sacred about the way she hid that grin, like it was a treasure she didn’t know she owned.

“Max,” I said, voice low and sure, “as long as I’m around, you’re gonna know your smile’s goddamn beautiful.”

She raised an eyebrow, a small smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Oh? So you plan on sticking around for a while, huh? Officer Locke… are you hitting on me?”

I grinned, didn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last, either.”

Okay, yeah—I shouldn’t be flirting. Not like this. Not now. I was supposed to be her protector. Her shield. But she made it so damn easy. If I were hitting on her? I wouldn’t be feeding her some sappy crap like, ‘Your smile is sunshine in my soul.’ Fuck that noise.

Her smile? That thing wrecked me every damn time I showed up. Twisted my insides into a pretzel of nerves and need. Made me feel like I was seconds away from either puking or coming in my pants. Real romantic, right?

All those years of being smooth—of charming my way into panties with one-liners and cocky smirks? Gone. Vaporized. The second she walked into a room, I was lucky if I remembered my own goddamn name.

What would I do if I really went for it? I’d probably flex like a desperate stripper trying to make rent—maybe toss in a “ Hey baby, wanna touch the abs?” Follow it up with my finest collection of dick jokes. Because obviously, nothing said “I’m into you” like offering up a penis pun.

But I didn’t do any of that.

I reeled it in. Somehow. Gripped the reins of my dumbass libido with both hands and managed something simple.

“Do you still need me to stay with you?” I asked. “Or are you good now?”

She tilted her head, considering. “I feel fine now… But honestly? It’s only because you’re here. Why don’t you stay inside? Besides, the couch has to be more comfortable than your squad car.”

She wasn’t wrong. And it’d be nice to stretch my legs. And my dick.

“Fine,” I said. “Where do you want me?”

“I have a cot I can set up in one of the guest rooms upstairs.”

“That’s not necessary. My bony ass can stay down here if you’d like. I’m used to sleeping on couches.”

“Bullshit,” she said, half-sputtering. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse behind me. “Your ass is anything but bony.”

Well, damn. That’s going in the mental spank bank for later.

“If we’re going to that bonfire tomorrow night, you need a proper night’s sleep. The cot might not be a luxury, but it beats getting curb-stomped by couch springs. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the stairs.

I let her lead. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t—especially a view like that?

From this angle? It was a miracle I was still breathing. That ass. Those thighs. The bounce in her step that made my zipper feel like it was punishing me for having eyes. I dragged in a breath through my nose and mentally filed that image away under: Reasons I’ll need extra coffee in the morning.

We hit the top of the stairs and turned right, kept going past the main bedroom.

Noted.

The room she pulled me into was musty and dark. Felt kind of like it’d sat untouched since the Cold War. Okay it wasn’t that bad, just not a five star hotel.

“Wow,” I muttered. “Just as cozy as Nana’s.”

She laughed—always a good sound—and told me the radiator worked. Promised warmth. She disappeared to fetch some blankets, and I leaned in the doorway to watch her walk away. For safety reasons, obviously. Strictly tactical. My gaze landed on the sway of her hips, and my thoughts… drifted.

If I had my way, I’d be sleeping in her room.

Not just for the view, though God knows it wouldn’t hurt.

But because I’d rather be the last thing standing between her and whatever was out there looking to hurt her.

Let ‘em try. I was always well received as the fuck-around-and-find-out welcoming committee.

I sat down on the cot with a creak and winced at the sound. Great. Nothing said self-control like your dick trying to break free in a haunted house while you pretended this rusty cot was more comfortable than the couch.