Lovers Like Us (Like Us 2)

I spot the knife an arm’s length away. Grab the knife. End this. I reach and clasp the hilt.

The door opens.

Maximoff enters like a quiet force of nature, coming forward, and his sturdy forest-greens make sense of this bloodied scene.

I’m drenched in red liquid.

Nate is unconscious beneath me.

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 unconscious body.

His eyes lock on my eyes.

He notices the blood, probably smeared across my forehead, cheeks, caked in my hair.

“Not mine,” I say quietly. “Animal.” Most likely.

He’s still coming forward.

He’s still committed and unwavering.

I’m still unmoving, clutching the knife. Unable to let go.

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 fucking levels.

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 motherfucking thing.

He sees.

Shit, he’s known.

And it’s still clung to me.

Maximoff comes behind me. His biceps and forearms slide around my chest and abs. He helps me rise.

His fingers skate along mine, the knife still firm in my grip. “Farrow.”

I drop the knife. I blink.

And I breathe. But I don’t touch him. My hands are stained red. Blood all fucking over me.

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 of it.

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 squeaks open.

Thatcher slips inside, his features set sternly, and I expect him to acknowledge me as part of a crime scene.

But he just talks into his mic. “Thatcher to Tri-Force, we need you at Jane and Maximoff’s townhouse.”

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 hands too.

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 to everyone.

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 that mirror.

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 the strands.

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 nautical wheels.

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 on me.

“I’ll dye it,” I tell him.

“I can get it.” He turns to leave.

I catch his broad shoulder. “Not yet.”

Maximoff faces me again, and I can’t stop staring at him, water dousing both of us. His chest rises in a heady breath.

My hand ascends to the back of his head, and he clutches my neck. Our foreheads nearly meet.

I can’t lose this guy, and he’s alive. He’s alive. Not hurt, not injured, he’s breathing right in front of me.

Maximoff licks his lips. “I didn’t listen to your fucking text.”

“No shit,” I murmur, and he lets out a short laugh—but his eyes melt over me. We’re drawing closer, closer. And more serious, I whisper powerfully, “I’m glad.”

He holds me stronger; my grip is tighter, and we pull towards each other abruptly, chest slamming against chest. As though we’re trying to connect as deeply physically as we are emotionally, the intensity rattling me, and I cup his face. His fingers claw at my shoulders. We spin, wrestling for more, and my back hits the tiled wall.

We haven’t kissed, but he’s already devoured me.

“Maximoff,” I breathe against his mouth.

His eyes scream I fucking love you. “Don’t let go,” he orders.

“I’m not.” I’m not.

“Neither am I,” he assures me.

“Good.”

And I realize and feel something. I would’ve self-destructed without him. He’s been the prince in knight’s armor.

Protecting me.

46

FARROW KEENE

“Maybe I should go into the nunnery,” Jane says softly while lying on the Victorian loveseat. She rests her head on Maximoff’s lap and digs a spoon into a pint of chocolate chip ice cream. “That way I won’t make any more dreadfully bad choices.”

“Yeah,” I say, “don’t do that.” While I sit across from them on the coffee table, I balance a mirror on my knees. A piece of jet-black dyed hair falls to my lashes as I fix my hooped lip piercing. Nate’s fist must’ve caught my mouth. My bottom lip is a little bit swollen.

It’s only been three hours since I knocked Nate unconscious.

Jane is still processing tonight’s events. Maximoff runs a hand through her wavy hair, and he shares a cautious look with me like it hasn’t hit her yet.

I know.

“I can do that,” Jane says like she’s preparing to debate me. “I’m an independent, strong-willed woman.”

“You’re not Catholic,” I say, finished loosening my piercing. I stretch forward and steal her spoon. Scooping into the ice cream, I take a bite.

Jane narrows a look at me, searching for a rebuttal. She can’t find one for once. I’m going to be painfully honest here: I don’t like it.

I hold out the spoon for her to take it back.

She doesn’t.

Jane.

Maximoff gives her a tough look. “Just let Farrow and me vet the next fucking guy. We’ll grill him twice as much as security.”

My mouth almost rises. “I am security, wolf scout.”

He flips me off, but he drops his hand when Jane says, “No.” Her calico cat springs up on her stomach, and she strokes Carpenter. “I’m serious, Moffy. I’m taking a break from all men with any sort of sexual benefits attached.”

His brows pull together in concern. “Jane—”

“He believed that rumor.” She sits up to better meet his eyes. Carpenter springs off the loveseat. “I’d been texting Nate throughout the tour, and he only knew about the locations to our FanCon stops, before publicized, because I told him. I trusted him. I didn’t even consider that he could’ve…”

“No one did,” Maximoff emphasizes.

“It’s not your fault,” I tell Jane.

If anything, this is on security. Me and the entire team. But at the end of the day, we caught the guy. Say we caught Nate months earlier, Jane would still be upset. There’d still be the same breach of trust.

The same ending.

But Thatcher doesn’t see it like that. His anger isn’t even directed at me. Jane Cobalt is his client. His responsibility.

In his mind, he should’ve seen Nate as a threat. Thatcher couldn’t even speak when I asked him about charges against Nate. He’s beating himself up over this shit.

Banks is spending the night at our townhouse. Hopefully his twin brother can help him realize that he couldn’t have done more.

“I should’ve known,” Jane says, setting down the pint on the rug. “I should’ve seen this—”

“No,” Maximoff forces.

“You weren’t the one with his dick in you,” she combats. “I literally let a psychopath into my body.” She tries to stay witty and lighthearted, but the severity of this line sinks in fast.

Her hands fly to her face, and a sob breaks through. Her body heaves forward.

Maximoff holds his best friend against his chest and speaks in French, his tone harsh and somewhat loving. He’s not that soft, but he kisses the top of her head. I hear the words ma moitié.

She rubs her face with the sleeve of her coffee-print pajamas.

I’m not sure what to say in this situation. “I’m sorry, Jane,” I breathe.

She sniffs and wipes more tears, hiccupping. Five cats start to swarm the ice cream, a good distraction. “I’ll be okay,” she murmurs and leans down. “Come here, my loves.”

Jane cradles Toodles and picks up the pint before standing. With a tearful gaze, she says, “I’ll get you all little bowls. Follow me.”

We watch Jane leave for the kitchen, five cats in tow, and then our eyes meet again.

I tell him, “That could’ve been worse.”

“That was bad,” he says with a nod. “A real fucking apocalypse.” Jane being upset in any capacity always gets to him.

“Looks like we survived the ‘apocalypse’ then,” I say, using air-quotes. “Since we’re all breathing.”

Maximoff cracks a knuckle, growing more serious, and he has trouble leaning back. His shoulders squared and posture upright. “What criminal charges do you think will stick?”