Page 199 of Lovers Like Us
I’m drenched in redliquid.
Nate is unconscious beneathme.
What surprises me, more than anything, Maximoff ignores Nate. Doesn’t look at him long or let his short-temper win. He’s not storming forward to throttle an unconsciousbody.
His eyes lock on myeyes.
He notices the blood, probably smeared across my forehead, cheeks, caked in myhair.
“Not mine,” I say quietly. “Animal.” Mostlikely.
He’s still comingforward.
He’s still committed andunwavering.
I’m still unmoving, clutching the knife. Unable to letgo.
We both know what Nate being the stalker actually means. Jane and Maximoff trust so few people, and Nate was granted access to their townhouse. To their family. To all of their personal things. He abused a power, invaded their safe space, which is violating on so many fuckinglevels.
And yet, Maximoff is only looking at me, his empathetic eyes redden. Not letting rage eat at him, not letting this fester, but I’d been carrying this demon. This draining, leeching motherfuckingthing.
Hesees.
Shit, he’sknown.
And it’s still clung tome.
Maximoff comes behind me. His biceps and forearms slide around my chest and abs. He helps merise.
His fingers skate along mine, the knife still firm in my grip. “Farrow.”
I drop the knife. Iblink.
And I breathe. But I don’t touch him. My hands are stained red. Blood all fucking overme.
With his chest to my back, he pulls me away from Nate. We near the brick wall, and his heart thuds against my body. And very strongly, he says, “It’s over,Farrow.”
Four months of sleeplessness, of an agonizing unknown and obsession that clawed deep under my skin.Gone.
All ofit.
Relief just crashes into me at his words, and I shut my eyes. Something wet and hot rolls down my jaw. I breathe out, and just as I turn to face Maximoff, the door squeaksopen.
Thatcher slips inside, his features set sternly, and I expect him to acknowledge me as part of a crimescene.
But he just talks into his mic. “Thatcher to Tri-Force, we need you at Jane and Maximoff’stownhouse.”
I wipe my hands on my pants. That’s not helping. Since Maximoff wrapped his arms around me, blood stains his bare chest and his handstoo.
I’m not loitering here. Quickly, I tell Thatcher I’ll return, but we’re showering before security arrives. Before I need to rehash the events toeveryone.
Maximoff and I exit, as quiet as possible but hurried, and we’re in the small bathroom. I crank the shower on. Hot water rains on the tiles. I’m not looking in thatmirror.
We keep our clothes on and slip into the glass shower stall. Water pelts us, and I comb my fingers through my hair. He tries to help scrub the blood out of thestrands.
Pink water washes into the drain at our bare feet. His skin tanned from the sun, mine fair, but the tops of my feet are inked with two nauticalwheels.
He passes me a bottle of shampoo. One scrub later, and I’m sure it’s not coming out. The white strands will stay tinted red. Maximoff knows too, his forest-greens set back onme.
