His hot breath fans against my ear. “Relax. This’ll be quick. Much better than what Rochester’s planned for you anyway.”
I glance around, my mind scrambling for a weapon. The brass letter opener on the desk. A glass paperweight. My knee. If it comes to it, my fucking teeth. I suck in air, ready to scream loud enough to wake the dead.
But before I can move, the door slams open and Rowland charges inside. He hits Morrison like a freight train, his fist connecting with the cop’s jaw. The impact sends Morrison staggering backward, blood spurting from his mouth in a crimson arc.
“Nobody touches what’s mine!” Rowland roars, his face twisted with animalistic rage.
Morrison hits the wall and lunges for the gun at his hip. His fingers close around the grip, but Rowland slams into the cop’s midsection, driving them both into Rochester’s desk. The heavy furniture overturns, sending out a spray of papers and pens.
“You fucking psycho!” Morrison yells, holding the pistol.
Rowland grabs Morrison’s wrist, slamming the weapon against the desk edge until it goes flying. It skitters across the hardwood floor and spins under a bookshelf. The fight continues, with Rowland pounding the other man with his fists, and Morrison reaching for hisbeard.
I look from side to side for a heavy object to smash over the cop’s head, but they both move too quickly for me to assist. Morrison is bigger, but he’s slow while Rowland lunges with a desperation bordering on feral. They crash into the bookshelf, sending leather-bound volumes tumbling to the floor in clouds of dust.
Morrison gets his hands around Rowland’s throat, squeezing hard enough to make his veins bulge. Face darkening, Rowland drives his elbow into Morrison’s solar plexus. The cop lurches backward with a gasp, and Rowland breaks free.
Then Rowland grabs a fallen lamp and wraps its extension cord around Morrison’s neck.
The cop’s eyes bulge. He claws at the cable with one hand, making awful choking sounds that turn my stomach. With the other, he reaches for Rowland’s face, only for him to jerk back. I raise my hands to my throat, my pulse pounding so hard its reverberations reach between my legs.
I’m not getting turned on by the sight of a man garroting another for my protection. Despite this, something in my heart flutters. Rowland is choking out a cop for me. Morrison’s face turns red, then purple as his legs kick frantically against the desk.
“Please,” Morrison wheezes, but Rowland’s grip only tightens.
“Annalisa belongs to me,” he growls, every word serrated like blades.
I pant through parted lips. I should be horrified, but my heart thrums with something darker. Somewhere in the madness, I feel safe. But this is beyond twisted. I press my hands to my ears, but nothing can block out thegurgling. Or the desperate scrabbling of a man dying because he hurt me.
Morrison’s death throes grow weaker. More desperate. His kicks fade into feeble twitches. He turns to me, his lips moving as if to deliver a final curse. But I turn around. Can’t bring myself to look. Can’t face that bone-deep sense of satisfaction of finally having a man who fulfills his promises. Instead, I stare at the wall, counting my breaths, trying not to think about what’s next.
I wait for the nausea, the terror, the guilt, but I feel nothing. Morrison is just another corrupt cop, like Callahan. Both men were violent. Both tried to use me as a pawn. Both died because they couldn’t stay on the right side of the law. I feel nothing, save for the slow, sinking weight of the fact that Rowland kept his promise.
He said he’d protect me.
And he did.
Moments later, strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me against a chest that rises and falls hard with exertion. I inhale Rowland’s familiar scent beneath the sweat and blood—salt and cedar and something uniquely him that makes me feel safe even in the middle of carnage.
“He’s dead, Annalisa,” Rowland says, his voice rough from the fight. “That bastard will never be able to touch you again.”
I turn in his arms and bury my face in his shirt, my entire body shaking. “What are we going to do now?”
He strokes my hair, his touch heartbreakingly gentle. He just killed a man… for me.
“You understand why I did it?” he asks.
I swallow hard, my mind already spinning throughthe consequences. Another dead cop. Another potential manhunt. Another reason to run.
“He would have hurt you,” Rowland says, drawing back to cup my face. “That man helped Edward cover up his murders and would have done the same to you. I couldn’t let that happen. You’re mine to protect, and I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
His possessive words should be terrifying. Any sane woman would turn tail. But what Rowland just did for me is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to love. I lean into his embrace, taking comfort from his protection, his strength, until the panic subsides, giving space to reality.
Rowland just killed a cop. We’ll both be hunted. Even if we can prove it’s self-defense, that still puts the spotlight on me for my past. I pull back to look at Morrison’s body sprawled face-down across the study floor.
“His colleagues will come looking for him,” I whisper.
Rowland follows my gaze to the dead cop. “I’ll put him with the others. But first, we need to check if Edward’s underground. If he managed to escape the fire, he’ll be trapped in the passageway between the cottage and the basement.”
