Page 96 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

WHAT HURT THE MOST

Maggie

Graham followed the ambulance to the hospital and never left my side—not even through the poking, prodding, wound cleaning, or the slow, humiliating process of gathering evidence off my body, clothes, and hair.

Now, sitting in his truck on the way home, I kept tugging at the scrubs they’d given me—cheap, thin fabric that clung to all the wrong places. I felt half-dressed, half-scrubbed, and more than half-exposed. The quick rinse hadn’t done much. Dried blood still clung to the spots I couldn’t reach.

I picked at my nails, trying to scrape away the blood trapped beneath them. Graham hadn’t said a word since we left the hospital. I told myself it was because he was driving—but the way he gripped the wheel, the way he didn’t look at me, it wasn’t just focus. It was distance.

The only sounds were the low hum of the engine and the slow, steady sweep of the wipers across the windshield. It made me feel like I did something wrong. Like it was my fault all of this happened. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him about my curse. That was why he left me alone in the first place.

If I wanted to place blame on someone. It was his fault for not believing that I never cursed him. It was his fault for leaving me.

God, Maggie, do you hear yourself?

This wasn’t anyone’s fault except Portia’s and that sick cult she was a part of.

Fuck Belvedere for creating this goddamn extraction theory. Fuck him for making me and others like me a target just by existing. And fuck him for thinking he could take something that his genes never carried.

I glanced at Graham and attempted to read him. His jaw was locked tight, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The stubble along his jaw caught the passing streetlight in flickers—brief flashes of a storm he buried deep inside.

“You okay?” I uttered.

“Fine.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know what I expected him to say—but after the hospital, after the way he held my hand and continually rubbed his thumb over my knuckles while I winced through every stitch, I expected… something.

We pulled up to the manor, the headlights sliced through the fog, and I didn’t know if I wanted to see what lay ahead.

I’d thought this was where we parted ways. Did I thank him for saving my life? That felt… hollow. Like it wasn’t nearly enough. Did I apologize for wasting his time? For making him think I was something other than what I really was.

“Stay,” he said, killing the engine. No room for argument.

He was already out of the truck and circling around before I could answer.

He opened the door, and his arms wrapped around me without warning, lifting me like it was nothing.

“You’re not walking on that leg.” His voice was steady, detached. Like this was just part of the job.

Inside, he carried me straight to my bathroom. No hesitation. No words. He set me on the edge of the tub, then carefully peeled the scrubs from my body without a word.

His hands shook as he brushed aside my blood-matted hair. My silver moon necklace—now stained red—came unclasped with a soft click. He set it gently on the sink.

I didn’t question it. Didn’t resist. I needed the shower—but more than that, it felt like he needed this. Like caring for me was the only thing that kept him from falling apart.

His movements went on autopilot. Turn the water on. Test the temperature. Grab a clean washcloth.

He didn’t look at me once.

He gripped the washcloth between his teeth while undressing himself in quick, almost frantic movements before dropping his blood-soaked clothes in a heap. Then he lifted me again, carrying me to the shower. His skin, flushed and warm, pressed against my freezing, aching body like fire meeting ice.

My feet met the cold tile when he set me down, and I watched the water mix with the blood on my skin—crimson ribbons spiraling down the drain like something sacred being wasted.

Graham placed the washcloth on the shower shelf beside my shampoo, then gently guided me under the stream so the water ran through my hair—rinsing away the blood, the fear, and the death still clinging to me.

But he still wouldn’t look at me.

“Graham?”

He made a small sound, more of a grunt. A passive acknowledgment.

He was stuck on autopilot. He took the washcloth, lathered it with soap, and began to scrub my skin—carefully, methodically, like erasing the crime scene from my flesh.

But his eyes stayed somewhere far away. Somewhere I couldn’t reach.

His hands moved over me like he wasn’t really here. Not rough, or hesitant. Just… detached—like I was just another case file he needed to scrub clean.

“I can do this myself, you know. You don’t have to?—”

“No.” The word ripped out of him like it hurt to hold it in. “Let me take care of you.”

The water beat down, scorching where I was still frozen. But none of it mattered—because then he looked at me. Not past me. Not through me. But at me.

“Okay,” slipped quietly past my lips.

I was right. He needed this. He needed to do something, like maybe if he could clean me up, he could wash away the guilt I saw in his eyes too. Like if he scrubbed hard enough, it would stop being his fault.

His breath hitched. The washcloth dropped to the floor.

Then—his hands were on me, gripping my face, his fingers slipping along my jaw just before?—

His mouth crashed into mine. Like he’d been holding back this whole time, and this was all that was left.

His fingers tangled in my hair, yanking me closer.

I gasped into his mouth—I’d never felt him like this before. Bruised. Desperate. Starved.

I was drowning in him, and I didn’t want to come up for air.

A low groan rumbled from his chest as he turned us, hauling me out of the spray. He lifted me like I weighed absolutely nothing, slammed me gently—but deliberately—against the cool tile wall.

Water slicked between us, causing me to slip. I clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in just to stay grounded. He grabbed my legs and wrapped them around his waist—securing me.

“Graham,” I breathed, but he didn’t answer.

His mouth devoured mine—harder, rougher, deeper.

His hands were everywhere. Gripping my thighs, my ass, my back—like he needed my body more than oxygen.

“Graham.” I tried again—softer this time, barely audible.

My thighs tightened around him, clinging like I was afraid he’d vanish.

Instinct overrode thought, as my hips rocked desperate to feel the thick weight of him against me.

I wanted this too—God, I needed it—but it was almost too much. Too fast.

And then?—

I gasped.

The hot, thick pressure of him stretching me open stole every word, every thought.

It hurt—but it was exquisite, like being torn apart just to be made whole again.

Once the sting subsided, a deep tingling pleasure overtook me, and a violent shudder rolled through my spine.

He sank deeper, claiming every inch of me.

It was almost like he was possessed again—but by something even darker.

Hungrier.

I was helpless. Every thrust wound me tighter, building into something that felt like surrender and combustion all at once. My heart slammed against my chest, each beat syncing with unbearable fullness, until my lungs forgot how to breathe.

His rhythm faltered, then locked into something too fast, too urgent. My body knew before my brain did—he was close. He swelled inside me, stretching me to the brink.

“Graham,” I whispered, equal parts awe and panic.

But he was gone—lost to it. His body locked. A shudder ripped through him, breath catching against my collarbone—then heat flooded me, deep and raw.

He clutched me tighter, like he thought I was falling. Fingers bruising. His groan—low, and broken—vibrated through my bones as he fell apart inside me.

Then in an instant, he was sobbing, his thick shell breaking apart in my arms. His breath still uneven on my skin, stuck like he was trying to hold it in and failing miserably.

What the fuck was happening?

It was jarring—this man, all muscle and sharp edges, unraveling like a fraying thread.

I should have known he’d snap, eventually. That first outburst I witnessed—back when he drove me home from the precinct—was just the beginning. He was unstable, and I didn’t blame him. He went through something maybe even worse than I did.

He took a life. Two, actually.

Maybe this was just a buildup from years of protecting, years of taking the lives of the evil that lived in this world.

That was something I didn’t know if I ever could do. Kill.

But seeing him break like this? It made something twist in my chest.

This was the man who cracked irreverent jokes while soaked in blood. Who treated pain like it was just another bad punchline. He’d spent years shoving whatever this was down, burying it in sarcasm, adrenaline, and sex.

But whatever had been eating him alive had crawled its way back up.

And now that I was seeing it—really seeing him —something inside of me cracked open too. Because this wasn’t just a breakdown. This was what it looked like when the strongest person you knew, finally lost the fight with whatever was haunting them.

“Graham, say something,” I whispered, my body still humming with his rigid cock still swollen inside of me.

He held me like I was fading, like if he let go, I’d never come back.

His body shook. Then his grip loosened. He pulled out and set me on the counter—and that was when I saw the shame in his eyes.

I watched him wrestle with whatever ate him alive. He pulled away, dragged a hand down his face, stepped into the shower, rinsed off, and shut the water off like nothing happened.

The only sound left was our staggered breathing.

Graham turned, grabbed a towel from the rack, and wrapped it around his waist in slow, deliberate movements. Like he was stitching himself back together—blinking away the tears. Like this didn’t just happen.

He turned to leave.

God, how could I be so stupid?