She laughed, but it sounded like a sob. Because he was right. That was why she was fighting herself so hard. She could hear the voice now and it sounded so much like her uncle. If you’d kept your legs together, you wouldn’t be diseased. You’re trash. A slut. What kind of example are you? What kind of doctor are you?

A damn good doctor, she answered the voice, and she knew that to be true. I am a damn good doctor.

Diesel was right, and that voice in her head was wrong.

“I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me,” she said quietly.

“I couldn’t.” He kissed her mouth, then trailed his lips along her jaw to whisper in her good ear. “I tried, but I couldn’t. Now, I’m planning to get into the shower with you. I’m going to go down on you and I want to hear every little sound, okay? I want to hear you scream my name. And with the water going, nobody else will hear you. Just me. Can I do that?”

She nodded, a new shiver rippling over her skin. “Yes. Except . . .”

He lifted his head to look at her, his exasperation beginning to show. “Except?”

“You’re still wearing all your clothes.”

He chuckled. “Then take them off me.”

So she did, wiggling out of his hold and unwrapping his body like it was a Christmas present. “You are a sight, Mr. Kennedy,” she murmured when she had him naked, raking her gaze over each inch of exposed skin, over every curve of his ink. “I could look at you all night long.”

“Maybe another night,” he said and took her into the shower. And made her scream his name. And then he took her to bed and did it again.

When he finally came, his expression was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life.

And when he fell asleep, holding her tight in his arms, she knew there wasn’t anywhere else on the planet that she’d rather be.

Cincinnati, Ohio
Monday, March 18, 11:55 p.m.

Grant trudged into the hotel room and sank onto the edge of the bed, lowering his head to his hands. He was so damn tired.

And empty. And angry. So damn angry.

Angry with Wesley for taking all of this onto his own shoulders. Angry with him for stealing heroin and selling it for money to finance this . . . cover of his. Angry with him for getting himself killed.

Angry with Cade Kaiser for being judge, jury, and executioner.

Angry with the Cincinnati detective who’d covered up Laurel’s disappearance because he’d been on the take. And with her roommate for the same.

He was just so damn angry.

He sighed, exhausted by the weight of it all. Before he knew it, he had his cell in his hand and was dialing his wife. “Hey,” he said.