Page 73 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

“I should’ve taken my sweater off,” he muttered, tugging at his collar and flapping his shirt like it might’ve done something useful. Our fingers brushed as he reached for the cloth.

“Oh—I was going to?—”

“Remove any evidence of your… arrival?” His grin was pure smugness as he turned back to the statue and wiped down its very satisfied cock.

“Yes.” I giggled—until I noticed the cloth wasn’t staying white.

It was turning red.

“Fuck.” I gasped, clutching my moon necklace like it could somehow reverse time. “My period’s early.”

“It’s okay, Max.” Graham turned back to the sink, calmly rinsing the cloth with soap, wringing it out like this was just part of the cleanup.

Like wiping blood off the cock of a statue he’d just made me ride until I came so hard I couldn’t walk was the most normal part of his evening.

He folded it into a perfect square, glanced in the mirror, and casually wiped a tiny spot of blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“But you went down on me.” My voice dropped to a whisper. Embarrassment hitting me like a freight train. My cheeks burned. “Oh, my god.”

“And…?” He said, tucking the washcloth into his back pocket like a goddamn gentleman. “You think I’m afraid of a little blood?”

He was dead serious.

Did he really not care?

“Well… I mean, guys usually don’t want that. Or they freak out. Or make a joke. Or something.”

“First of all—this wasn’t about me. Was it?” His gaze dropped to my lips. “Second, if you’re worried—I didn’t even notice. But if I did? You taste fucking divine.”

My breath caught.

“You liked it?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to hide how relieved I felt. “Ooo, you gonna get all kinky on me, Officer Locke?”

“You’ve ruined me, Max.” He reached for my waist, his grip firm. “First, those toys. Now this. You keep rewiring my brain.”

“Really?” I sighed dramatically, leaning back. “I have so much to teach you, young grasshopper. Is that why you’re stealing her washcloth? To level up your kink badge?”

Graham chuckled. “No. What happens if they find your… fluids all over that poor statue’s dick? I don’t think they’d count that as a consensual act.”

I smacked the back of my hand against his stomach. “What, you gonna arrest me for defiling her marble lover? Please. You’re my accomplice.” I held out my wrists, teasing, like I was ready to be cuffed. Then I hopped off the counter—and my knees gave out.

Graham caught me instantly, hands locking around my wrists as he pulled me close. Our faces were barely an inch apart. The squeal that escaped me was not cool. But damn… it was impossible to focus with him looking at me like that.

His eyes scanned mine, flicking from one to the other, steady and focused. I stopped breathing. Was this it? Was he finally going to?—

“We’ll have time for cuffs later, princess,” he murmured, still holding his body against mine.

Our chests rose in sync. My fingers twitched in his grip and I forgot how to breathe.

I closed my eyes in anticipation. “Oh my god, are you finally going to kiss me?” The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

My eyes flew open. His cheeks flushed red. He licked his bottom lip— fuck, that lip—and dropped my wrists like they were on fire.

“We should probably get out there,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Before Portia wraps up.”

I exhaled a curse and turned away. Way to go, Maggie.

“I think we might be too late. Look.” Graham pointed to the frosted glass beside the jacuzzi. An orange glow flickered through it—firelight.

“Shit.” My voice cracked. “We need to get out of here.” I grabbed my phone, snapping a few pictures of the invoices before shoving them against my chest. They were a crumpled, sweat-damp mess in my death grip, smudged and warped. Nothing about this looked innocent.

I bolted for the door, but just as I reached the hallway, Graham caught my wrist and yanked me back—pressing us against the wall just outside the bedroom.

His finger went to his lips. Shhh.

Portia’s voice floated down the corridor. Then—click—the front door shut.

My heart pounded against my ribs, heat flushed my entire body. What would she do if she found me with this evidence? What would I do if I was right about her?

She’s going to know. There’s no way she believes I spent half an hour in the bathroom. Not with Graham. Not alone. Not without reason.

I looked up at him. He was scanning the room like he was solving a puzzle—eyes sharp, jaw tight, every muscle coiled with purpose.

I exhaled and whispered. “She’s going to kill us.”

He didn’t answer. But his grip on my wrist tightened just enough to say, not if I can help it.

Portia’s footsteps crept closer. Maybe twenty feet away. About to turn down the hall.

I could feel it.

We were caught.

The fucking invoices were still in my hands. Crumpled. Obvious. Incriminating.

Before I could blink, Graham shoved me back—hard—pressing me flat against the wall as he yanked open the nearest door.

The bedroom. The swing of it blocked us from view, but just barely.

My brain stuttered over why a bedroom door opened into the hall like that—poor design choice—but the thought vanished when his fingers tilted my chin up.

“Don’t move,” he breathed. Deep. Stern. A command that hit low in my stomach.

His body covered mine, solid and hot, his breath above my head. My face pressed into his chest, and I swear I could feel his heartbeat drumming through his ribs—steady, unshakable, like he knew we’d make it out of this.

Through the sliver of space between door and frame, I watched her.

Portia swept into her bedroom, all sharp heels and dramatic posture, a tall man in a suit trailing behind her. He reached back and shut the door?—

Shit.

The door.

The door.

It swung closed… the hallway came back into view…

And we were still standing there.

In the hall.

Not the bedroom.

Safe.

I gasped, “We did it!” A whisper-scream barely above a breath. “We got away with it!”

Graham threw me a sharp look and a finger to his lips. “ Quiet.” Then he grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the exit, all business.

No lingering. No commentary.

Just him, me, the stolen evidence, and a getaway we were damn lucky to make.

“Wait,” I whispered, pressing my ear to the door. Portia’s voice spilled out—sharp, angry.

“Well, you invited her, ma’am,” the man said, too calm.

“I never expected her to actually show up— get my zipper, will you?”

A pause.

The unmistakable hiss of a zipper sliced through the silence.

“We have to get rid of anything that connects us to those nights… anything that could be traced back.”

Shit. What nights?

Footsteps and rustling made it hard to catch the details.

“ Ugh! Everything was going so well… until that bitch from Ohio showed up, taking what was rightfully mine. Mortimer almost had the new will drafted and everything.”

I gasped—loud. My hand flew up to cover my mouth.

“Why not just let her have the manor, ma’am? It’s a trivial drop in the bucket when you consider your… other endeavors.”

“You fool!” Portia snapped. “It’s not the bloody manor I want. It’s the safety deposit box. He took the location of the key to his grave. I need unrestricted access to the property to find it. As Silas’s lover, it should’ve been mine.”

There was a pause.

Then the man said, quieter, more careful, “Then maybe, ma’am… you should’ve gotten him to marry you before you administered the?—”

SMACK.

The crack was so loud I flinched.

“ Get out!” Portia roared.

Shitshitshit!

“Time to go!” I hissed, grabbing Graham and shoving him forward.

He caught on immediately, took the lead, and pulled me with him—racing through the mansion, every breath of air behind us thick with danger.

Everything in here was so elegant and refined, it made my thrift-store witch aesthetic look like a garage sale gone feral. The kind of place that cost more to furnish than I’d made in a decade. But still—what the hell could be in that safety deposit box that Portia would risk everything for?

We slipped into the garage, and Jesus—six cars, each one glossier and more expensive than the last, lined up like they were posing for a luxury calendar. We weaved between them, headed for the side door leading to the private beach access.

Graham reached for the handle, cracked it open?—

—and that’s when I saw it.

A glint. Metal. Just past the second set of garage doors.

“The tire iron!” I hissed, stopping dead in my tracks.

Graham turned, brows drawing tight. “What?”

I pointed. “ Look! That’s it! That’s the one!”

He followed my gaze but didn’t budge. “No time, Max. Tire irons aren’t exactly rare.”

“No, but does every tire iron have a crooked arm like that?” I tugged his arm, eyes wide.

He hesitated, but shook his head. “Even if you’re right, if we take it now, it’ll be inadmissible. We need a warrant, or it’s useless in court.”

I clenched my fists. “But it’s the same one I saw in my vision—I know it is. And the cufflinks—she keeps them in the drawer, I’m sure of it! Morty’s blood could still be on either of them, Graham. And she said he was about to sign a new will, one she faked for Uncle Silas!”

I grabbed his arm, breath catching in my throat. “She killed him. I know she did.”

We continued down the cobblestone path, my legs still jelly—every step was a negotiation between my brain and my body.

I purposely dropped the invoices in a puddle next to the catering truck in passing. In theory, it wouldn’t have been quite as suspicious if Portia found them by the bistro’s vehicle instead of randomly laying out—crumpled and smudged in her hallway.

We continued down the path, when we hit a fork, I froze.

Two choices.

One led to the beach. The other curved back toward the front of the house, where I spotted Graham’s pickup through the garden hedges.

Leaving now would be a smart move. Clean getaway. No more chaos.

But smart wasn’t exactly my brand.

I yanked Graham off the path and pulled him behind a massive rhododendron bush—so thick with lavender blooms it swallowed us whole, cutting off all view of the house.

“Is there anyway I can touch Morty again?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, even as my lungs felt like they were in a paper bag.

Graham recoiled. “What?” He squinted at me, blinking like I just offered to dig up his grandma. “Why the fuck would you want to? He’s just bones… and whatever’s left after decomp.”

And okay, hearing it out loud? My stomach did a little flip-flop.

Still.

“I think I can see something,” I whispered. “Something no one else has. Not just vibes, not just ghosty stuff—facts. Real ones. Things the public wouldn’t know. Clues. ” I looked up at him, pleading. “Can you take me to the morgue?”

He looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head. Eyebrows twitching. Mouth slightly agape. And honestly. Fair. I mean, this is coming from the same girl who leapt into his arms because a finger brushed the corpse’s.

But fear was funny like that. It could horrify you—deep, marrow-level terror—but still left behind this twisted kind of high.

Not always sexual. Just… raw. Addictive.

Like adrenaline junkies who jump out of planes for fun, knowing that one wrong move meant splattered guts on impact.

Yet they kept going back. Not for fear. For survival .

I wasn’t saying I wanted to go around fondling dead people now—Graham would never let me live that down—but there was something about what happened. About how his arms wrapped around me, anchoring me, telling me my nervous system had to stand down because he had me.

That? That was the high I chased. Not the corpse.

Him.