The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"It's over. Finn, it's fucking over!" the man yelled, trying to break through the blind rage emanating from the usually so staid, so controlled Finn.

Finn who was splattered in blood.

And I knew it wasn't his.

"It's not over until he's dead," Finn growled, trying to charge forward again, getting shoved back so hard from the other man that he crashed down on his ass.

Which had to have hurt like hell.

But Finn was too enraged to even notice as he tried to scramble back up again.

I don't know where the decision came from, because I wasn't cognizant of even considering it as an option, but the next thing I knew, I was flying across the room, throwing myself into Finn's chest, wrapping my arms and legs around him, holding on tight.

Because, if nothing else, he wasn't going to be able to fight with me between him and Blake.

The fight immediately drained from Finn as his arms went around me, tight for a second until I winced, then loosening.

"Take her outside," Detective Lloyd demanded, appearing in the doorway, a little bloody himself.

I couldn't see Blake.

But I could hear pathetic little moans still coming from the utility room.

Finn tightened his arms around me as he got awkwardly to his feet, then held me close as he made his way up the stairs.

"You're okay," he murmured to me over and over until the words rang in my ears.

It wasn't long until the street was swarming with police and ambulances.

"You have to let her go," someone urged, standing close to our side. Finn's arms only tightened around me. "She could be seriously injured," the woman added.

With that, Finn slowly lowered me down on the back of the ambulance, but moved in protectively at my side. Even though the threats were clearly all neutralized.

The paramedic checked out my hands, my lip, probed the bruises on my face, then made me follow a flashlight with my eyes before concluding I seemed okay, but urging me to go to the hospital to double-check.

"No, don't look," Finn demanded as the other paramedics started to come out of the house with Blake on a stretcher. "Don't," he said again, moving his body in front of mine, gently grabbing the back of my head, pressing my forehead into his firm stomach to ensure I didn't see.

"Are you protecting me from what I did to him, or what you did?" I asked, trying to remind myself I wasn't supposed to want to be anywhere near this man.

"Both," he told me, voice tense.

"Alright," Detective Lloyd's voice said from our side, making Finn release me, so we could both face him. "Here's the short of it, Poppy," he said, giving me a nod. "As I said before, Finn isn't a serial killer. He's a fixer."

"A fixer," I repeated. "Like scandals, I know," I said, rolling my eyes, then immediately regretting it when pain sliced through my head.

"No, it's different," Lloyd said. "I don't have time for it, but I want you to know he's absolutely not a serial killer. He doesn't kill anyone. Well, he did in the service. Because of orders. And he almost did tonight. For you. But that's it."

"Detective, are you speaking to my clients without my presence?" another man asked, walking up in an expensive gray suit. Clean-cut and handsome, but there was something a little sinister underneath it all, I was sure.

"Christ. I'm too fucking tired for this," Lloyd said, shaking his head. "Let's just allow the techs to take some pictures and fingernail scrapings of Poppy's nails. And we can just forget about her man nearly beating him to death, okay?" Lloyd asked, looking at the man who was clearly an attorney friend of Finn's.

"Poppy?" the other man asked, looking at me.

"I, ah, okay," I said, feeling like my brain was turning to mush with each passing second.

"Okay," the attorney said, nodding to Lloyd. "And questioning?"

"Can clearly wait until her injuries are fully assessed," Lloyd said, shrugging. "Shit. Here comes the press. Poppy, just give us another half an hour, okay? Then you get cleaned up, and get some rest."

"Okay," I agreed, the past few days of hunger and fear and exhaustion and pain starting to seep through the numbness of my survival instinct. "You'll stay?" I asked, looking at Finn.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, words a fierce vow. I shouldn't have been as comforted by them as I was, but there was no denying it either.

Besides, Lloyd said Finn wasn't a serial killer. With the kind of certainty I rarely heard from him. I had no reason to second-guess Lloyd.

And if my only objection to Finn was the whole possible serial killer thing, then there was no reason I couldn't cling to him now.

He'd nearly killed for me.

Pictures were taken. A few questions were asked, mainly about the other bloodstains on the basement floor, and I'd needed to explain about the other girls for a few minutes before Finn grumbled at the detectives, and informed them he was taking me home.